How to Forgive a Sociopath
by Stryder2008
Summary: An accident changes everything. "Shock raced through him and paralyzed his response as he stared down, trying to understand what he was seeing. Because what he was seeing simply wasn't possible…he was dead. But lying on that gurney, less than 300 yards from 221B Baker Street's front door, in a pool of wet black hair and bright red blood, was Sherlock Holmes." No SLASH. Friendship.
1. Not Dead

**Synopsis:** This is an alternate storyline starting from the point that Sherlock confronts John in the restaurant after returning from Serbia. An accident forces John to consider what it would be like to lose Sherlock twice in the same lifetime. But was it an accident? Or is there something more nefarious at work…an old enemy is targeting the boys of 221B Baker Street. This takes place prior to the subway scenario with the bomb.

 **Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock. In an effort to avoid an unfinished story, I've written the entire story and will update on Saturdays, apart from the initial post. I am originally from Britain, but now reside in the states (and have for a long time), so if I get something wrong (locations perhaps…) please don't eviscerate me for it.

This is not SLASH. Friendship between Sherlock and John only. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

Also, I write heavy angst and action with injuries…so if you don't like that, you may not like this story. I wanted to write something different for the opener of series 3…so that is this story.

 _ **PLEASE REVIEW:**_ _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece. I am not making any money from this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read along.

 **Chapter 1**

 _Not Dead_

It should have been easy, coming back from the dead. But like everything in Sherlock Holmes's life, it wasn't and was fraught with complications. The plan had been quite simple and the consulting detective had executed it flawlessly. Those that had been necessary to the successful completion of the _Lazarus_ plan had also played their parts to near perfection. _Had there been prizes for their acting skills, surely they would have swept the ceremony._

And yet something had gone terribly wrong and returning from the grave hadn't gone the way Sherlock had planned. Nothing about the _Lazarus_ plan had gone the way it was supposed to…

It had all started when his older brother Mycroft Holmes, the _British Government himself_ , had suggested that they outsmart one, James Moriarty. And between the two Holmes brothers, they had done exactly that. At least that was the way it had seemed as Sherlock had stepped out on the roof at St. Barts hospital.

But they had both misjudged Moriarty's desire to win and the cost he was willing to endure. The moment that Moriarty had placed the barrel of that gun in his mouth, Sherlock knew he'd lost. Because he wasn't going to be walking out of this trap the conventional way. No, he was going to have to see the terrible plan that he and his brother had concocted through. The very idea that he would be travelling the world unspinning the _spider's web,_ had been exhilarating, at the very least.

What Sherlock hadn't understood, at the time, was the incredible cost of their plan. Not only on himself but also on his best friend…John. The one person that Sherlock Holmes considered essential in his life; everyone else could fade away into obscurity and the, self-proclaimed, high-functioning sociopath would never even notice, but not John Watson

That would be one Doctor John Hamish Watson. Formally of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and former Army doctor.

The only person in the whole of England, possibly the world, which Sherlock counted as indispensable; John was also the only friend in the world that Sherlock had…or had ever had. He was one of very few people in the detective's life that could handle being around Sherlock on a continual basis. Point of fact, John had actually _chosen_ to live with the world's only consulting detective at 221B Baker Street.

He leaned back, allowing himself to sink into the soft leather seat of the aircraft chair, steepling his long pale fingers beneath his chin as he contemplated the last two years. The web that Moriarty had built had been much larger and far more intricate than Sherlock had anticipated. When the whole business with Moriarty had started, Sherlock had anticipated being away a few weeks, maybe a few months…he had not considered that it might be years before he saw his beloved London again. The beautiful architecture and the grey raining streets of the city that had a beating heart that only Sherlock heard.

He allowed his eyelids to fall closed as he sent his consciousness sliding down into his mind palace. It was the one place where Sherlock stored every relevant fact he'd ever learned. And some irrelevant ones that he couldn't quite seem to delete…though he had tried. Anything that involved John was firmly etched into the ornate walls of this mental structure and could not be wiped out…no matter how painful or dull.

Inside the many many rooms of his mind palace was everything that made Sherlock who and what he was, a brilliant and extremely complicated man. And inside these hallowed walls, was stored the entirety of the networks he'd committed to unraveling over the last two years. It had been difficult, dangerous, and the consulting detective had nearly died on more occasions than he cared to reflect on.

He'd had to give up many of the comforts he'd come to value. Ones that he'd grown accustomed to being an adult living in a large city with every amenity under the sun. But the most painful thing he'd been forced to endure had been the temporary suspension of his friendship with the army doctor turned blogger. That had been...most _uncomfortable._ It had plagued his mind palace and disrupted his sleep, which was generally allusive anyway.

It hadn't been his idea to keep John out of the loop about his fake suicide. It had been Mycroft's _brilliant_ idea, though Sherlock had vehemently argued against it. As always his older brother had used logic and reason to undermine Sherlock's emotional reluctance about keeping the doctor in the dark. The younger Holmes hadn't known, he hadn't yet comprehended how much he'd come to count on his blogger's ability to focus his fractured, yet brilliant mind.

Mycroft believed that if Moriarty's people suspected that Sherlock was actually alive, it would put John, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson back on the assassin's 'to-do' lists. The elder Holmes had also argued that if John were truly in mourning over the death of his friend, then the world would believe it too. Because no one would believe that Sherlock Holmes would be so devious or so cruel as to leave his _only_ friend broken into tiny little bits just for some _scheme_. As John would have said, that would be a 'bit not good'.

And yet that was exactly what Sherlock had done; although he hadn't initially processed it that way. It had simply been a new adventure. This was the ultimate game; one that the consulting detective would eventually win, though it would be at great cost to his own transport.

At the time he had believe that John would be fine without him. That it would be only Sherlock that would suffer as the result of their separation. The high-functioning sociopath had honestly believed that when he returned, and he would return, that John would understand. The doctor would _understand_ why Sherlock had needed to fake his own suicide. He had even fooled himself into believing that John would understand the role _he_ would have to play in this _plan._ The whining of jet engines pulled him back to his current situation on the plane.

Sherlock ran his long fingers through his disgusting hair and nearly groaned at the greasy feeling. He missed his expensive shampoo and…warm water, _oh God, how I miss warm water…_ he had also missed John's fantastic cups of tea. The ones that the jumper-wearing doctor insisted on fixing at every occasion; and nicotine patches…he hadn't had one in almost a year and half. And while he didn't feel the overwhelming _craving_ for nicotine, Sherlock really wanted one at the moment…or maybe a case could be made for an actual cigarette? He couldn't decide.

Over the last four months he'd been held inside a Serbian prison; the one that his older brother had finally found him in and retrieved him from. The beatings had taken a nasty toll on his transport; he stretched gingerly, feeling the pull of strained muscles and the tightness of old wounds and the newly healing scars.

Starvation had been the easiest to deal with, though usually when he didn't eat it was because he _chose_ not to, not because he _couldn't_. Sherlock was now thinner than he'd ever been, which was saying something as he was extremely lean on a good day. He had also added to his previous collection of scars, although he didn't really mind that. For him they were like a map of his best cases; Sherlock supposed that they might bother someone else. But they didn't bother him. He mused with a half-smile. The smile died as soon as he considered _John_ and what his friend's reaction would be when he learned how Sherlock had gained his new array of intersecting scars. John would no doubt demand to know where they had come from and Sherlock wasn't sure he was ready to go into the details yet.

This was the first time he'd _allowed_ himself to think of his friend since he'd left London. Okay, so he hadn't been able to _ignore_ the John that lived inside his mind palace. But he had not dwelled on the subject of his best friend during his waking hours. He'd carefully hidden _John Watson_ away in his rooms inside the mind palace. The younger Holmes had ensured that there were mountains of books in there to keep the doctor busy. During occasions of enormous stress, injuries and even once when Sherlock had been close to killing himself from exposure, all for a case mind you so it was perfectly acceptable, John would talk to Sherlock. It wasn't the 'real' John Watson, he'd known that of course he'd known that, but it appeared a reflection of detective's own desire to live...and it always took John's form. He'd filed that little piece of information away for further assessment at later date.

Sherlock had known that if he let himself be distracted, by musings of John and home while in the field, he would likely die there. So instead, he'd kept a single-minded focus on the task at hand, _when he'd been awake_ , which meant no conscious thoughts of John Watson. He'd focused on unweaving the deadly tapestry of Moriarty's network. Find every single person that could endanger England, and any of the people in Sherlock's life that he deemed _important,_ and then obliterate every one of those threats.

"We should be landing in London within the hour. We'll go straight to my office and get you properly cleaned up." Mycroft's voice cut into Sherlock's trip down memory lane.

He reluctantly pulled completely out of his mind palace and blinked at his older brother before tilting his head to the side, assessing him. Sherlock's gray-green eyes narrowed as he evaluated his brother. _He's been dieting again. He always looks angry when he diets_. Food was Mycroft's only weakness…food and his 'junkie-detective' younger brother, Sherlock. While the younger Holmes knew he couldn't fault his brother for sibling responsibilities, he could rankle him about the sweeties his brother loved so much.

"Quite right. I have no intention of walking into Baker St. looking like a shaggy mountain man." Sherlock's baritone filled up the previous silence of the aircraft's cabin. "Dieting again I see."

"It's been a stressful two years, brother mine." Mycroft said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pressed his lips together in response. A tight painful pulling of his lower lip reminded the injured man of the split that was still healing. He had been waiting for Mycroft's apology for letting the baron beat the bloody stuffing out of him before revealing himself. But so far, his insufferable older brother had remained irritatingly mute on the subject. _He'd better not ask for a 'thank you' or I'll spike his tea with ecstasy next time he visits._ Sherlock seethed silently.

221B 221B

John Watson looked about the living room where he'd shared so many of Sherlock's adventures. The cases that had truly brought the army doctor back from a war he'd been trying to escape ever since being shot in Afghanistan and then invalided home.

He hadn't even known what he'd needed when he returned to London. What he did know was that meeting Sherlock Holmes had saved his life in the most literal sense. Had things gone on as they had been, there was a very good possibility that John wouldn't be…well, around any longer.

Helping to solve crimes with Sherlock had given John's life a sense of meaning that had been missing since he'd been discharged from the army. Not to mention the adrenaline rush he'd needed to simply exist from day-to-day. It had occurred to John that while Sherlock freely admitted his own addictions, the army doctor was far more silent about his _addiction_. Danger. Adrenaline. Being needed. Each of these things was something that John couldn't live without.

He was fairly certain that his brilliant friend had _deduced_ his addiction to danger on the very first night they'd chased after the cabbie near Northumberland. But he'd had the decency not to say anything to John about it. And generally speaking, Sherlock Holmes wasn't inclined to _decency_ where other people were concerned, so that also _said_ something about the depth of their friendship. The interesting thing was that that was the very first day they'd met…officially.

Sherlock, the insufferable sod, generally shouted out whatever was on his bloody mind…and _oh God, do I miss him._ John thought sadly. Even two years after Sherlock's…death, the doctor missed his eccentric friend with a depth that was still raw and painful. Not a single day went by that something didn't remind him of the consulting detective's absence. It had been a very difficult few years following his best friend's death… _death_ …it sounded as though Sherlock had simply passed away. Instead of committing suicide brought on by Moriarty.

He forced himself away from those disturbing and dark thoughts; they never ended well for him. John was intensely grateful for the appearance of Mary Morstan. She'd come into his life, much like Sherlock had, at a time when John was rapidly approaching the end of his metaphorical rope. He'd been spending more and more time staring at his army Browning L1A9 and wondering if he should simply follow his friend on that last _adventure_. Mary had saved him from himself. Just like Sherlock had saved him that day in the laboratory at Barts. John sighed and slowly stepped inside the flat.

The living room was covered in dust, but nothing had been moved. The books were still sitting untouched on the shelves. Sherlock's skull was still staring, albeit a bit mournfully, from its' spot upon the mantle. It was an ever-present reminder of the eccentric man that had filled up 221B Baker Street.

Nothing had changed…not since John had officially decided not to return to their shared flat. It had been too painful; looking at the unfinished experiment that Sherlock had left congealing on the kitchen table, two years ago. Or the thumbs in the fridge that eventually looked like over-ripened carrots, swelling and changing color, before decaying into mush.

Then there was the violin…the beautiful Stradivarius that now sat _silent_ in the ordinary case, stowed in the corner by the fireplace. John couldn't remember how many times Sherlock's incessant playing had kept him up at night. But like all things Sherlock, he was a master of that violin and sometimes the music was so painful and full of emotion that John couldn't help but listen, entranced by this version of Sherlock…stripped bare of his masks. At moments like this he felt like he was seeing a carefully hidden version of his friend.

John was fairly sure that Sherlock didn't realize he poured all the unwanted emotions, ones that he generally hid from the world, into his playing.

Everywhere he'd looked, the doctor had seen _Sherlock_ …or rather he'd seen the _absence_ of Sherlock. And it had been like a knife inside his heart, twisting until he could no longer be alone in the flat.

He had been unable to save his best friend that day on Barts roof. He had stood, like a helpless sod, on the street below the hospital and watched as the only man that had ever truly understood him, leapt to his death. And it had been because John hadn't been enough. His belief in the brilliance and innocence of the world's only consulting detective hadn't been enough for Sherlock. And he'd taken his own life. The absolute truth of this knowledge had killed the army doctor a little bit every day.

He shook himself from the damaging thoughts and finally turned toward the kitchen. John's blue eyes were drawn to the metal pan that still sat on the table and the rock hard _thing_ inside it. A burning behind his eyes had John turning away sadly. _Will it ever get better?_ He wondered when his chest tightened painfully. _Will there ever be a day when I don't miss you…_ he seriously doubted it.

"So why come here now?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she followed him into the living room. She busied herself tidying up the place, removing the union jack pillow from John's chair and slapping it against her leg. The dust filtered through the air and made her sneeze. "I really should dust in here." She lamented as she set the pillow back down.

Her voice encouraged John's attention back the present situation and his reason for visiting this dusty reminder of his past. He swallowed thickly. "I've got some news." He finally managed.

Her face fell. "How bad is it?"

John frowned and then shook his head. "No, no, I'm not sick." He heaved a sigh. "I'm moving on."

"You're emigrating…" she breathed out softly.

"No. No, I've met someone." It felt strange to say it out loud. He'd been with Mary for a few months now and it had been the lifeline he hadn't known he needed. "We're getting married. Or I'm going to ask." He stammered out with a shrug of his shoulders.

Mrs. Hudson smiled genuinely, clapping her hands together in excitement. "Oh…that's wonderful." She took a breath. "So soon after Sherlock?" She added as an after thought.

"Well…yes." John answered slowly.

She smiled. "What's his name?" It was an enthusiastic question, but one that he had grown weary of answering.

A familiar pang of irritation ran through John at her assumption that he and Sherlock had been in a _romantic_ relationship. It had always irritated him that people just assumed _that_ of their close friendship. Honestly, John wasn't even sure if Sherlock was capable of having that kind of relationship with anyone. Hell, the man was barely able to have a _friendship_ with someone.

"Mrs. Hudson, how many times do I have to tell you…Sherlock was not my boyfriend. I am not gay."

221B 221B

Sherlock reclined in the barber's chair soaking in the humanity of it. He'd felt so out of touch with civilized society over the past two years. Just having a shave felt like he was being given a piece of himself back. He'd left so many pieces of himself scattered around the world as he'd destroyed Moriarty that he relished getting a small piece back.

His fastidious grooming habits had taken a sharp decline during his time away form London. Mycroft was droning on about something or other, though Sherlock was trying not to hear anything his brother was saying. Something about the Baron… Finally, he heard the one thing that he _would_ grace with a response.

"A 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss." Mycroft finished in that haughty way he had of saying absolutely everything.

Sherlock pulled in a low deep breath, better his brother think he was intensely irritated than know the true level of Sherlock's physical pain. "What for?" He heard Mycroft's huff of indignation and knew that his brother thought he was being obtuse.

"For wading in."

A pulse of genuine anger exploded through Sherlock and he lifted his hand, signaling the barber to stop. He didn't, after all, need to have his throat slit now. He struggled up into a seated position wanting his brother to see his face. Agony shot along his ribcage as the two that had been broken shifted uncomfortably. There were also several healing lacerations that pulled painfully. Sherlock hissed and struggled to keep his face neutral, his eyes remained shadowed in the low light of Mycroft's office.

"Wading in?" Sherlock bit out through clenched teeth. "I was nearly beaten to a pulp."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in denial, then look confused. "I got you out."

The sharp gray-green of Sherlock's eyes barely showed beneath the furrowed brow and appraising look he shot at his older brother. "No, I got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?" He tilted his head to side as he stared intently at the other man and tried to deduce a reason for his older brother's delayed involvement. When his sharp mind honed in on a reason, he ground his teeth together in anger.

"You were enjoying it." He hissed.

Sherlock narrowed his multi-colored eyes even further. He was thrown back into a memory of them as children, when he'd angered the next-door neighbor's son. His older brother had waited until Sherlock had a puffy eye and a split lip before he'd stepped in to scare off the larger boy.

"Definitely, enjoying it." He continued as his voice dropped into a deep rumble of disapproval. Why did Mycroft always think to teach him a lesson at the most inappropriate moments? Always when it meant that Sherlock would spend a few days convalescing as a result.

"Do you realize what it was like for me? Going _undercover_? The noise…the people." The older Holmes shuddered in distaste. If it hadn't been completely necessary to pull Sherlock out, then he would have sent one of his operatives. But he'd known that his little brother wouldn't take the news well from anyone other than him. So he'd learned Serbian and gone to retrieve the one person in the whole of England that could unravel the current plot threatening London…William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

"I couldn't risk giving myself away, now could I? In case you hadn't noticed, fieldwork isn't exactly my natural milieu." If his brother could have erased the unwanted reaction to, even the thought, of being around _real people_ , Sherlock was sure he would have.

Sherlock carefully leaned back in the chair; the pressure on his ribs was starting to make it difficult to breathe, allowing the barber to finish his work. Anthea stepped into the room with clothing for him. Sherlock's keen gaze slid over to the sleek black coat, trousers and the tailored white shirt, he'd missed tailored suits. She hung the lovely suit on a hook and stepped out of the room, giving him some privacy to dress.

After the man had finished, Sherlock had slowly pulled his lanky form from the leather chair and padded over to the sleek clothing. He raised his eyebrow in approval at the designer label on the sleeve and high quality of the material.

Slowly he shrugged out of the dressing gown, allowing it drift toward the ground drawing his gaze toward the floor. He ignored the pale pink scars that now littered the tops of his feet. He didn't, however, miss the sharp intake of breath from Mycroft when the towel also slipped from around his thin shoulders revealing some of the startlingly new and, Sherlock assumed, fairly nasty scars that would no doubt stretch from his lower back to the base of his neck.

"It was a long two years." Sherlock muttered softly without turning to look at his older brother. He wasn't sure that he really wanted to see what his brother's reaction was, because while Sherlock was very good at deductions, Mycroft was bloody brilliant at them. It would only have taken the other man a few moments to catalog the injuries and come to his own conclusions about what the younger Holmes had gone through.

The tall thin man pulled the suit off the hanger and was pleased to see that whomever had bought the suit, and _it certainly hadn't been his older brother_ , had taken his weight loss into consideration. The beautiful black clothing fitted like a glove. He was just tucking the crisp white shirt into the trousers when Anthea stepped back into the room, handing a report to Mycroft.

"All the chatter, all the noise concurs. There's going to be a terrorist attack on London." Anthea said softly.

Sherlock threw her a look and raised his eyebrow in response.

221B 221B

The restaurant was far more posh and sheik than John usually enjoyed. But this wasn't just any night out. This was the night he was going to change his life. At least he hoped it would turn out that way. He'd always thought that he'd get married, but a part of him had given up on that dream. Life with Sherlock had added all the _excitement_ that he could handle and frankly? Keeping a girlfriend with Sherlock _deducing_ her all time hadn't been all that conducive to keeping a healthy relationship. A pang of guilt washed through him for finding some semblance of happiness despite the loss of his friend.

John sighed and patted the ring that was securely nestled inside his jacket pocket. Mary had popped away to check her makeup, not that she needed to. John was pretty certain she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever been with…seen…or had the pleasure of…well, one doesn't need to go into _that_.

A pair of black pants stepped up to the table and without glancing up John ordered whatever the wine was that he suggested. The doctor's mind was so involved in his own upcoming proposal that he missed obvious signs that the man was trying to get his attention.

221B 221B

Sherlock forced himself to walk away from his friend. John, the bastard, hadn't even glanced up. So either Sherlock was doing better at the fake French accent or the other man was considering some major decision.

It was always difficult to get John's attention when he was pondering major life choices. Sherlock had once conducted an experiment concerning the explosive properties at bbq's, with propane, in the kitchen sink just to get his best friend to notice how _bored_ he was. But that was all in the pursuit of science and John needed to pay attention now… _dammit_. The consulting detective was working really hard at surprising him and he _needed_ to appreciate the massive effort it was taking.

He stepped away to find the wine that Mycroft had suggested and then Sherlock had recommended to John, thus securing his anonymity and validity as a waiter. His multi-colored eyes were drawn over to a blonde woman making her way back toward the doctor's table. She wasn't tall or rail thin but she was pretty, despite the alarming amount of eye makeup she had smothered on her face, and definitely someone John would date. Sherlock waited until she had been seated exactly 3 minutes before he marched back over to the table with the bottle of wine.

His heart was beating quicker than was normal and Sherlock was trying to decipher why he was concerned. Mycroft, the bloody bastard, had said some things that made the consulting detective wonder if he would be as well received as he'd anticipated by his friend…his _only friend_ and the one person he'd been the most afraid of losing to the sniper's bullet.

John was leaning into the table, his face determined and nervous as he stared across at the blonde. The woman was laughing, obviously enjoying his company. Sherlock chose that moment to interrupt.

"Sir, I believe that you'll find this to your liking. The qualities of the…." Sherlock kept talking and somehow came around to a comment that allowed him to reveal himself. "…making one aware when he is staring into the face of an old _friend._ " He reached up and pulled off the glasses in a flourish of movement that was grandiose and worthy of this performance. In his, not so humble, opinion it was rather excellently done.

John hadn't even glanced up; he'd been trying to get the obnoxious waiter to _go away_. "No, seriously…could you just…" And then his brain made the connection between the man standing above him and the man he'd lost two years ago. His heart stopped inside his chest and John found his breath caught in his throat as he stared. Because there, looking down at him, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. So unless a ghost had somehow gotten a reservation at this very exclusive restaurant, it was the flesh and blood representation of John's _dead_ best friend.

Sherlock saw the exact moment when John realized it was he, that it wasn't a figment of the doctor's imagination. The shift in his blue eyes, the subtle shake of his body as he stared unblinking at the taller man. "Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Adds distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters." It was a bad joke, even Sherlock could tell that.

John's eyes shifted over to the woman across from him then back to Sherlock. She was trying to figure out who could have so thoroughly confounded John's speech, sending him into silence. He hauled himself to his feet; unable to stay seated any longer, the shock nearly vibrating through him. "John?" she asked softly. Her green eyes were wide and worried as she watched the shift in his demeanor. "John, what is it?"

Sherlock finally decided he should probably say other things. "Well, short version…not dead." He hadn't realized that saying those two words would feel as poorly as they did. In fact, he'd never considered how his antics would affect his friends at all. He couldn't, he wouldn't have been able to do the things he needed to if he had. But now as he stared into the confused and pain-wracked eyes of his only friend, Sherlock wondered if it would have been kinder to simply stay 'dead'.

He floundered on. "Didn't mean to spring it on you like that. I know, could have given you a heart attack. Still might. But in my defense it was very funny." Sherlock laughed and watched as John's eyes hardened at his dismal attempt at a joke. "Probably still will. Okay, it's not a very good defense." He conceded quietly.

The woman's eyes widened as she made the connection between the two men. "Oh no, you're…"

"Oh yes." Sherlock responded without really looking at her.

"My god." She breathed slowly, shock stealing her voice.

"Not quite." He responded flippantly.

"You died. You jumped off a roof."

Without taking his eyes from John, Sherlock answered. "No."

"You're dead." She finally whispered.

He reached for the napkin on the table. "No, I'm quite sure. I checked." Picking it up and folding it into a point, he moved to dunk it in her water glass. "Excuse me."

All this time John continued to stare without uttering a single word. But Sherlock knew his expressions well enough to know that John was beyond pissed off. So he made another attempt at a joke. "Does uh...yours rub off too?"

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Do you have any idea what you've done?" Her voice was breathy, like she was angry. But what right did she have to be angry? Sherlock hadn't done anything to her. In fact, why was she involved in this conversation at all? She should really just leave.

"Okay John, I'm um…suddenly realizing that I probably owe you some sort of an apology." And it was true. Sherlock hadn't considered that he'd need to _apologize_ for saving John's life. But upon further reflection of his conversation with Mycroft earlier that day, he knew that his older brother had known how this would go down. And he hadn't thought it important to at least _warn_ Sherlock of the uncomfortable _feelings_ that would accompany this reunion. _Rubbish older brother._

John slammed his fist into the table, pulling the detective's gaze back to his friend. Part of him was fairly certain that John was trying very hard not to punch him in the face.

The woman tried to keep him calm. "John. John, just keep it…"

"Two…" he couldn't even finish the words. His voice was stolen by the emotions that were currently trapped inside his mouth. He groaned and tried again. "Two years." Same result. The words barely made it past the anger and the hurt.

Sherlock watched John struggle and an uncomfortable tightening in his chest alerted him of an impending, and unwanted, emotional response. He was feeling something akin to _guilt_. Watching his friend struggle to find the right words to express his _feelings_ wasn't any kind of fun. And it made Sherlock realize that Mycroft had been right. John may not want him back. That he may not get to go back to traipsing through the streets of London with his best friend at his side solving murders and cases. And that elicited a flood of emotions that the consulting detective wasn't really prepared for.

"I thought…I thought you were dead. Now, you let me grieve…" John pulled in a ragged breath. "How could you do that? How?"

The gray-green eyes remained averted and the dark-haired man tried to find a way to explain why he'd faked his death. Why he hadn't told John about it. But he could also see the anger and the pain bubbling beneath the surface. It was only a matter of time before John blew up with an aggressive response.

"Wait, John. Before you do something you might regret. One question. Just let me ask one question. Are you really going to keep that?" He had hoped to lighten the situation, but immediately saw his mistake when John's rage filled eyes lifted to pin him with an incredulous stare. It was only a moment before John acted on those aggressive tendencies and launched himself at Sherlock, knocking the consulting detective to the ground. Sherlock's head bounced off the tile and he felt an explosion of pain rocket through him. White sparks exploded around the edges of his vision and then his vision blurred slightly at the edges.

He pushed the physical response back down. He couldn't afford to lose consciousness now. _Damn transport._ John needed him. At least, he hoped that his friend still needed him, because Sherlock definitely still needed John. Needed the army doctor in a way that he had never _needed_ anyone else.

John's hands shifted to the pale thin neck of his friend and for the first time it occurred to Sherlock that he may have crossed a line that he may not be able to _un-cross_.

221B 221B

Sherlock held a white linen napkin to the split in his lower lip. But it wasn't the pain in his mouth that was causing him distress; it was watching John crawl into a cab without looking back.

"I don't understand. I apologized, isn't that what people are supposed to do?" The woman, Mary as it turned out, looked up at him. A small smile on her lips and a…was that a sad look? Sherlock couldn't be certain, but it almost appeared as though she _pitied_ him.

"Gosh, you don't know anything about human nature do you?"

He considered her comment for a moment and then answered quietly. "Nature? No." He glanced down at her and reevaluated his initial deductions. She was kind. A nurse. Orphan. The information just kept flowing into his consciousness as he stared at her. "Human? No." He continued softly.

The fact that John was walking away from him, from their friendship proved just how much _Sherlock_ didn't know about people…especially John Watson.

"I'll talk him 'round." Mary said with a genuine smile. _She likes me?_ His mind supplied without his permission.

"You will?" He couldn't stop the surprise from registering in his voice as he turned to look down at her. Why would she do anything for him? At no other point in his entire life could he remember someone doing something for him outside of John or his older brother, _and that always came with strings attached._ The only other person that had ever cared about how he was feeling was John…or at least it had been.

"Oh yeah."

Mary smiled sweetly. Her green eyes glistened with a kindness that made absolutely no sense to Sherlock. People didn't do things for _him_. He was a grade-A asshole and he was well aware of that fact. But that had never been his relationship with John. The doctor that made him eat toast and drink an ocean of tea. The man that had been concerned when a cabby tried to manipulate Sherlock into taking that damn pill…so much so that John shot the older man without a second thought and saved the consulting detective's life.

His gray-green gaze lifted to meet Mary's.

"Mary?" John called from the cab.

Sherlock watched as John held the door for Mary and then crawled in beside her without even glancing his way. It hurt. The potential loss of his only friend had been the one thing he'd been desperately trying to avoid by leaving. But now it appeared as though Moriarty had won their last encounter after all. Because removing John from Sherlock's life was the only way to truly destroy the detective…and Moriarty had known that.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story._


	2. Aftermath

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

BECAUSE YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME REVIEWERS! I'M POSTING EARLY...HOPE YOU ENJOY. Also, I don't use a Beta, so apologies for any mistakes.

 _(To those of you that noticed the 1_ _st_ _chapter followed the The Empty Hearse pretty closely, you're correct. It jumps off into AU in this chapter. Hope you enjoy it.)_

 _ **PLEASE REVIEW:**_ _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration is belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece. I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 2**

 _Aftermath_

 _Five minutes earlier…_

John seethed as he flagged down the first passing cab he saw. But it wasn't anger that was painfully clamping down on his heart; it was hurt and betrayal. Sherlock had put him through hell and the _high-functioning sociopath_ had done it intentionally. Of all the people in John's life that he'd chosen to trust, Sherlock was the last one that he thought would do something this painful…this cruel…this psychotic.

His thoughts turned to Harry and their ongoing sibling feud. But not even she would pretend to be dead. Their childhood hadn't been all white picket fences or parties and John still carried the scars, both emotional and physical, from those clashes, but it had never caused this much emotional pain; possibly because he'd never expected all that much from his family. When their father had finally died and John had been accepted into the army with a specialization in the medical field, he'd thought that he'd left that life of disappointment and pain behind him. Turned out the _joke_ had been on him and the universe was still laughing.

As he thought of the tragedy that had been his life for the last two years, he realized that it had actually been worse with his _best friend_.

His gaze lifted to where Mary was standing, speaking with Sherlock. The taller man was holding a white linen cloth to his split lip; his face a mask of confusion. John couldn't even muster the energy to feel bad about that. Punching Sherlock had been a knee-jerk reaction to the rage coursing through his veins. The damn sociopath hadn't even understood _why_ John was upset. It wasn't that he'd faked his death or even that he'd kept it from John ( _although he was very pissed off about that_ ), it was the knowledge that the genius-detective had felt he couldn't _trust_ John to maintain his secret.

After all the death defying chases and the many cases, that had nearly cost the doctor his life, he'd assumed that their friendship was beyond any issues of trust. Apparently he was the only one that felt this way. Honestly? That was the most distressing thing of all, the lack of trust. John didn't trust easily and he'd extended that closely guarded emotion to Sherlock and he'd snubbed it. His therapist had diagnosed him with 'trust issues' at least that was what Mycroft had said upon their first meeting. _Bloody bastard sticking his pompous English nose in my business._ But it had all been for nothing because…

Sherlock didn't trust _him_.

How could he ever believe that John would betray him? He'd die before he placed his friend in danger. He swallowed thickly and scrubbed his hand across his face, suddenly feeling old and tired. When his fingers brushed the mustache, he cringed. It had taken Sherlock less than five minutes to determine that Mary didn't like the facial hair. John hadn't even noticed.

"Mary?" He called out flatly, turning to look at the two people in the world that meant _everything_ to him. Complicated emotions swirled through him as he stared at them. Mary smiled up at something Sherlock had said and then made her way toward the waiting taxi.

John stepped aside so she could climb in ahead of him before settling himself in the backseat and pulling the door closed. The cab had barely begun moving when he turned to her. "Can you believe him?" He was hoping for some support from her and was slightly shocked when she answered.

"I like him." She stated evenly, her eyes sparkled with mischief when she looked over at him.

His dark blue eyes flashed over to her and his eyebrows drew together in consternation. _Of course she'd 'like' him_. He thought with frustration. "What?" It was the only response he could muster.

Mary shrugged and turned a radiant smile toward him. "I like him." She repeated softly before reaching down and lacing their gloved fingers together.

221B 221B

Sherlock shoved his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff before he started walking back toward Baker St. None of this had gone the way it should have…the way that the consulting detective had anticipated that it would. _Why do people have to throw emotions into every situation?_ If John had been able to think clearly, logically, then he would have been able to see things from Sherlock's point of view and surely he would have seen that there had been no other option.

But _no_ , the army doctor was viewing the entire situation through the blurry lens of _emotions_. The ever-present moisture that permeated London's atmosphere picked up and turned into a downpour. It quickly plastered Sherlock's dark locks to his head. In a way it was appropriate he supposed, given the situation he now found himself in. He considered making his way past his dealer's route and securing himself a dose of morphine to ease the rampant spinning of his mind.

 _Of course you want drugs, when things don't go your way, you crawl inside a syringe._ John's voice invaded the sanctity of his internal thoughts and then resounded off the marble walls of his mind palace, shaking Sherlock to his very core.

"Shut up, John." He growled.

Several taxis pulled past him, slowing down hopefully, but Sherlock ignored them and continued to walk through the dismal streets. It was the perfect reflection of his current mood. The storm increased until it was raining so hard he couldn't make out the street he knew he was walking on. The light from the street lamps disappeared into the rain drenched sidewalks and simply seeing his hand in front of his face was no longer an option. Perhaps that was why he missed the car that screamed around the blind corner and slammed into him.

The metal collided with his already abused flesh and he grunted as he landed on the hood. His forward momentum caused him to roll up into the glass, shattering it with his back. A warm wet rush of, what he could only assume was blood, immediately soaked his right arm. _That's really unfortunate._ His brain supplied in acknowledgement of the injury.

White-hot pain shot through him and stole his breath, his eyes clamping shut as he struggled to simply pull in one breath after another. He was fairly certain that one of his lungs had collapsed because he immediately had difficulty drawing that single breath. His broken ribs had shifted painfully and whatever healing his body had done was immediately _undone_.

Sherlock slowly slid away from the glass, down the hood of the rain-slick car and landed on his back in a puddle of water, his already aching head cracked against the unforgiving ground for the second time that night. White spots burst before his eyes and he knew that he'd sustained a fairly serious concussion. No amount of internal argument was going to stop unconsciousness…not this time.

The world pin-wheeled down to a single point and he knew that he didn't have long before he was locked inside his mind palace due to the failure of his transport. This wasn't the type of unconsciousness he'd been hoping for tonight. He'd been seeking the kind of mindless floating that came with morphine, not the dizzying speed that accompanied cocaine. And he certainly hadn't been hoping for the sluggish and ridiculous responses that came with an injured brain.

The part of his mind that was still active recognized that he was bleeding, profusely, probably arterial… He waited for the person driving the car to get out and at least phone the ambulance. But they didn't. And his thoughts drifted for a moment. He pulled them back with great difficulty and slowly pulled his arm against his side to try and slow the bleeding.

Should he be tying some sort of the turni- _thingy_ around… _his arm? Or maybe his…oh bother; he couldn't even recall the basic makeup of human anatomy at the moment._ Where was John? He would know what to do. Doctoring was John Watson's job; Sherlock's was deductions and crime solving. He had no time for mundane things like first aid and _doctoring_.

But his lightning fast thoughts were not cooperating like they should be. Damn things kept splashing off into the darkened corners of his mind-palace without permission; completely ignoring Sherlock's physical needs. _Rude! Very rude indeed!_

Through the reddish haze of pain and the random drifting thoughts he realized that the car had disappeared and he was now alone in the middle of the rain-drenched street. Sherlock didn't even know for sure where he was. _Fan-bloody-tastic! Hit and run, that's just awesome…_ he felt his mind slip into the darkness...

 _Brussels - One year ago…_

 _Sherlock squatted down next to the old stone building in the small alleyway; he held his hands over the trashcan fire desperately seeking the warmth it barely offered against the cold night air. The thin material that was currently serving as a coat, and he used that term very loosely, was doing nothing to dispel the biting cold that was seeping into every bone of Sherlock's thin body. He missed his thick Belstaff…and the warm glow of the fire inside of 221B Baker Street._

 _The snow was falling in thick sheets of white and the temperature was rapidly approaching dangerously low levels. Sherlock was in this predicament because he'd been chasing the assassin Moriarty had sent after Lestrade and that chase had landed him in Eastern Europe. The man had been quite good, not as good as the assassin that had been assigned to kill John, but very good otherwise._

 _The decision to kill this man had been an easy one. Sherlock wouldn't allow anyone to come after his friends; not again. After all, hadn't he committed suicide to protect his friends?_

" _Your only 3 friends will die…" Moriarty's threat still echoed through his mind palace, ensuring that Sherlock stayed focused._

 _Over the last year he'd killed a lot of people, although to be fair, they hadn't been very 'nice people' and they'd had it coming. The final problem was Moriarty's second in command and he was the one person that Sherlock hadn't been able to identify…not yet. The consulting detective thought the man might be Serbian or at least there was a connection there that needed to be explored. The members of Moriarty's network were every bit as afraid of this 'second in command' as they were of Moriarty himself; which meant that information was hard to come by._

 _Sherlock blinked sluggishly as his vision swam in and out and he swallowed back the nausea that threatened to reproduce his last meager meal. He hadn't slept in…how many days had it been now? He couldn't remember anymore and his mind was starting to ignore his desires and operate on its own. Damn thing kept pulling images of John from the safety of his mind palace and placing him there with Sherlock. This time he couldn't fight the apparition that now knelt next to him in the gathering snow._

 _The black jacket and the dark blue jumper that John was wearing made him seem so much more real to the consulting detective that it was difficult to ignore the 'John-hallucination'._

 _Sherlock's long delicate fingers were bright red in the extreme cold, not to mention stiff and starting to turn white . He tried to open and close them several times; it didn't help, not in the least. He kept his eyes averted from 'John'._

 _The hallucination chuckled. "The cells are starting to crystalize due to the cold." John said as he leaned back against the brick wall of the alley. "They are going to start breaking through the cell walls destroying the nerves and probably causing permanent damage." Sherlock ignored the comment. "You won't be able to play the violin anymore."_

 _Why was his hallucination telling him something so obvious? "I'm not stupid, John. I'm well aware of the effects that freezing temperatures have on human tissue. I've done quite a few experiments to determine that information." Sherlock hissed indignantly. "As you well know."_

 _John simply shrugged. "True, you did take that human head from the morgue…you kept it next to the roast in the freezer, as I recall. But if you don't warm up you will suffer permanent damage." He repeated the previous warning._

" _If you insist on stating the obvious, John. You can leave." Sherlock's words slurred slightly and he tried to blink away the weariness that was plaguing him. He knew that the figure standing across from him wasn't actually 'John Watson'; certainly not the one that he was aching to speak to. But it was better than being alone with his own thoughts._

 _The moment that Mrs. Hudson had taken his skull, thus forcing him to notice the rather unremarkable man sitting in his living room, and he'd realized that John was actually listening to him...well that moment had been a game changer. The skull had done an increasingly poor job of focusing Sherlock's flashes of brilliance ever since the doctor had knocked on the door of 221B._

" _You aren't real." The baritone rattled out of Sherlock and the doctor sighed and nodded his agreement._

 _His blonde head bowed in agreement. "No Sherlock, I'm not real. You left me behind, remember?"_

" _I didn't have a choice." It came out more resigned than as an excuse._

 _John's head tilted to the side and he pressed his lips together in the way that he only did whenever Sherlock did something he thought was idiotic. Which was decidedly less often than when John did something stupid. Sherlock thought with a half-smile._

" _You always have a choice, Sherlock." John said softly._

221B 221B

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stared in the rearview mirror as he waited for Sally Donovan to exit the bank. They'd been called out to check out a break-in attempt. Nothing had been taken, just damaged property at this point. The wipers were running on high to keep Greg's field of vision clear. The storm had come out of nowhere.

Donovan was just exiting when another call came across the radio. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling for a moment and listened to the call. She pulled the door open, climbing into the BMW and out of the cold London rain.

"Hit and run at the corner of Baker and Jordan. Male, thirties. Unresponsive at the scene, will be transmitted to St Barts for medical evaluation. Closest units to this location, please respond." The radio died and Lestrade sighed as Sally groaned softly.

Lestrade really wanted to go back to the office; it had already been a very long day. They were both tired and technically off shift, but… "It's right around the corner." He said, ignoring the weariness pulling at his eyelids.

She blinked tiredly and ran a hand over her face, wiping the rain from her cheeks, before nodding. "Yeah, alright." It wasn't the rousing support he'd hoped for, but it would have to do.

The drive took less than five minutes. What the DI hadn't anticipated on was the onslaught of emotions the moment he pulled onto Baker Street. He hadn't been on this particular street since Sherlock had… _died_. It was still too painful to see the place without the consulting detective, the energy that had always been vibrating through the flat had dissipated into god-awful _silence_.

The lights of the emergency vehicles whirled in the distance as he slowed to a stop. It was still pouring and the rain was now sucking up the extra light from the surrounding areas. Greg wasn't looking forward to getting soaked and then heading back to the tiny rented flat he currently occupied. He sighed and pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders before stepping out of the car onto the puddle-laden sidewalk. Within moments the detective inspector was soaked clean through, his hair plastered to his head, making him feel like a drowned puppy.

He reached for the umbrella in the back seat and then splashed over to the back of the ambulance. A body was lying motionless on the gurney, an orange emergency blanket wrapped over it.

Lestrade stepped close enough to be able to make out the fact that the victim was indeed male, thin and tall. He leaned over further and felt his breath catch painfully in his chest before freezing there all together. Shock raced through him and paralyzed his response as he stared down, desperately trying to understand what he was seeing. Because what he was seeing simply wasn't possible… _he_ was dead…

Lying on a gurney, less than 300 yards from 221B Baker Street's front door, in a pool of wet black hair and bright red blood, was Sherlock Holmes. He was even wearing that damned coat he loved so much and the blue scarf he was rarely seen without.

"Oh God…" Lestrade whispered and gulped down the bile quickly rising up the back of his throat. This was like deja-vu. He'd been on hand when Sherlock's body had been transported to Barts for autopsy. Lestrade had seen first-hand the condition of the consulting detective before he'd been pronounced dead, by Molly Hooper.

The way the vibrant green-gray eyes had stared vacantly up into space. The way his body had been unnaturally still and compliant. Because, on a good day, there was nothing _compliant_ about Sherlock Holmes…and that had definitely not been a _good day. But this?_ It had the potential to be so much worse, because the DI hadn't even suspected that the bastard was still alive. And now Sherlock might not remain that way. _Son of a bitch!_

Sally rushed to Lestrade's side, her eyes widening when she saw what had silenced her normally talkative boss and, instead, had him staring down in disbelief. "What on God's little green Earth…?"

"I doubt very much that _God_ did this." Lestrade spat back angrily.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story._


	3. Emergency Contact

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

 _(This is the point where we_ _jump off into AU. Hope you enjoy it.)_

 _ **PLEASE REVIEW:**_ _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 3**

 _Emergency Contact_

The taxi ride home had been quiet. Neither of them spoke as the car rolled through the narrow streets toward their flat. John's unasked question meant that the engagement ring was still sitting, heavily, inside of his jacket pocket. He'd never mustered the nerve to ask Mary to marry him. Not after Sherlock had dropped the emotional equivalent of an A-bomb on him.

He couldn't get the image of his best friend standing, no, perched on the edge of the roof at St. Barts hospital, out of his head. The blasted coat, that Sherlock wore everywhere, billowed out around his legs, like a cape. But John knew that this wasn't a superman movie and the sociopath wouldn't fly if he jumped. Sherlock's arms had been spread wide, almost like wings, and then he'd leapt to his, _supposed_ , death. There were no words to describe the cold emptiness that suddenly threatened to engulf John as he watched, in slow motion, the flailing body of his best friend drop, like gravity intended, to the sidewalk below.

Never in his life had he been this confused by an emotional onslaught. He had been too shocked in the restaurant to fully comprehend what was happening right in front of him.

 _Sherlock was back!_

But later...in that coffee shop…the only emotions John had been equipped to feel; were anger and betrayal.

Mycroft…the tramps…even Molly Hooper had known that the consulting detective hadn't actually died that day. _And John would be bringing that up to both of them at a later date._ But right now it felt like everyone, that had been deemed important by Sherlock, had known that he wasn't _dead_ ; everyone except for John Watson.

He honestly hadn't meant to punch Sherlock, at least not the second time. But the damn sociopath had a way of tearing down John's walls, which allowed the doctor's anger to rule his actions...and apparently his fists. It was one of the things that his therapist had warned him about. John needed to 'deal with the rage', not bottle it up until it exploded into the world in the form of violence. The image of Sherlock lying on the floor in the little shop, his palm pressed against his bloodied lip, flashed to the surface. And the doctor groaned internally. What was worse was that John now had a slight headache from the initial head butt that had flattened the tall, thin man.

"Are you okay?" Mary's soft question barely registered, but it did _register_.

He shook his head. "No. I'm not okay."

She didn't say anything. She didn't try to convince him that he should be _fine_ with everything that had transpired. She didn't tell him that he didn't have a right to be confused or angry. She simply stood quietly in the doorway watching him for a moment before nodding once and stepping from the room, giving him some much needed privacy. He didn't know how to explain what he was feeling. He wasn't exactly good with _feelings_.

For as often as John had born witness to Sherlock's lack of emotional communication, John had believed that he was better at dealing with his own emotions. But as he assessed the current ball of anxiety that was sitting like a coiled snake inside his gut, he knew that he was every bit as bad at expressing those complicated little pieces of humanity as the consulting detective was. _That is a sobering thought._

John's ringing mobile interrupted his thoughts and he blinked back the weariness that was an everyday occurrence. He glanced down at the mobile screen, fully expecting it to be Sherlock and completely ready to ignore the call. But when Greg Lestrade's number popped up on the screen he flicked the 'answer' button.

"Hey Greg, it's not a good t—"

"You need to come to the hospital." The tightly contained way that the detective inspector started the conversation immediately set John's nerves on edge. He straightened and rolled his shoulders. It was an unconscious habit that he had gained in the army; those moments when he needed to 'soldier-up'.

"…time. Sorry? What?" He finished without thinking and then immediately wondered if Harry had gone on another bender and somehow wound up in hospital due to an accident.

"It's Sherlock." Lestrade's voice rose and dipped when he uttered the consulting detective's name, his own shock at uttering those words coming through the speaker. When John didn't answer for several key moments, Greg continued, almost accusingly. "You knew. You knew he was alive."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. Not until earlier tonight, I didn't." He sighed. "What's he done now? Cocaine or morphine?" Because that was Sherlock's MO, when things didn't go his way would find himself a dealer and alleviate the disappointment of failure.

"Neither." Greg paused for a moment before continuing. "Look mate, he's in a bad way. You need to come to the hospital." He didn't want to give John the details over the mobile. These were things that needed to be said in person.

"He was fine an hour ago." John argued, but his heart was now pounding inside his chest and he could feel the cold stabs of dread deep within himself. He didn't want to feel this way. John didn't want to _care_ about what happened to the _sociopath._ But the truth, if he was really honest with himself, was that he _did_ care…he would _always_ care. Sherlock had been his best friend. _No, scratch that. He is still my best friend. He's just an asshole._

"Well he's not now." Greg snapped back.

John blinked slowly and released a pent up breath before saying anything else. "How bad is he?" If there was any way that he could avoid a trip to the hospital right now, he really wanted to try.

"Unresponsive at the scene. Lost a lot of blood—"

"Wait, this wasn't a drug overdose?"

"If it had been, I would have started with that." Lestrade sounded pissed. "Look John, I'm not any happier about being fooled by Sherlock than you are, but something bad happened to him and you need to get your ass down here, now!"

John ground his teeth together and shook his head in resignation…because there was _no way_ that he _wasn't_ going to the hospital. But he was definitely not happy about it. "I'm on my way." He finally bit out as he grabbed his jacket off the chair, his fingers clamping down on the cloth and his whole body going still as he listened.

Greg quickly gave John the rest of the relevant information and hung up. The doctor found himself frozen, in his living room, replaying his confrontation with Sherlock over and over inside his head. _Please don't tell me he did something stupid because of me._ It wasn't a pleasant thought and it was tossing his emotions around like a bouncy ball.

"You need to go." Mary's incredibly reasonable words broke through his paralysis and spurred him into action. John shrugged into his jacket and quickly kissed her before he raced out of their flat, flagging down the first taxi he saw.

221B 221B

 _Serbia, 4 months ago…_

 _Sherlock knew the moment he heard the helicopter that he was not getting out of this one. He'd managed to slip through the baron's hands on two different occasions, but it appeared as though his luck had finally run out. He careened through the trees, ignoring the stinging slap of branches as they hit him in the face and the fiery agony in his right ankle that threatened to send him crashing to his knees._

 _He'd tripped over a downed tree and then slipped into a dry creek bed. Unfortunately, his right ankle had gotten caught between a series of roots and he'd been unable to correct the angle at which he had fallen. He had bit through his lower lip to keep from voicing his pain that would have immediately given his position away. As the spotlight from the helicopter flared to life around him and he was suddenly being screamed at, in Serbian, he slowed his ambling gate to a walk and finally stood still surrounded by men that wanted nothing more than to steal his life with a bullet._

 _In front of him were several soldiers with rifles aimed directly at his chest. He knew enough Serbian to understand that they would kill him if he didn't give in to their demands. His thoughts were chaotic and he hadn't slept in more than 3 days, so he knew he wasn't operating at peak efficiency. So the moment he heard John's voice he wanted to keep running._

" _They will kill you." John's words were, again, a statement of the obvious. But this time Sherlock did not argue. He did not disagree with the doctor's assessment of the situation he now found himself in, because Sherlock was so tired of being alone…that he would take anything, at this moment, which resembled a 'friend'. Even if that friend was a watered down version of the real thing. "You need to run, Sherlock."_

" _Can't." he whispered._

 _Instead he raised his hands above his head and sank to his knees. His stomach twisted painfully as his ankle throbbed in time with his heart. The men were starting to approach him and suddenly realized that he was alone. His 'John' hallucination was nowhere to be found. Once again, he was alone. The words he had thrown at his friend scrolled through his head and his stomach clenched painfully; he wanted to retch at what he'd said. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

 _What rubbish! Sherlock had never really 'wanted' to be on his own. He simply didn't understand people or how to interact without them, through no fault of his own, wanting to punch him in the face._

 _The men closed the distance quickly and before Sherlock could say anything, one of them cracked him in the back of the head. His brain quickly supplied that it had probably been with the butt of a riffle. There was a sudden burst of blinding pain that preceded his descent into darkness as he pitched forward._

 _Later…_

 _Sherlock trudged through his mind palace. The royal blue dressing gown billowed around his trouser clad legs as he stepped over another pile of books. "John?!" he called as he nearly tripped over an overturned bookcase. "You've got to clean this place up…one of us is going to break an ankle." His eyes picked up on the volumes of books that the doctor seemed to be studying. "What are you trying to find?"_

 _The mind palace version of the army doctor stepped around a large stack of texts and shrugged. "You locked me in here. What did you think I was going to do? And I think the question is, 'what are_ you _trying to find'?" His gaze dropped to Sherlock's feet. "Where are your shoes?"_

 _The consulting-detective blew out a breath and waived off the stupid inquiry. "I don't know. I lost them."_

" _Well, you're leaving bloody footprints in my room."_

" _Since this is my 'mind palace', I'm pretty sure that I can leave footprints, bloody or otherwise, anywhere I wish." Sherlock pressed his lips together and knitted his eyebrows in irritation. "Besides, I told you, I can't locate my shoes at the moment. They seem to have disappeared."_

" _I heard you. And that..." He pointed at Sherlock's bare feet. "Makes no sense." John answered evenly. "Why are you bleeding?" His eyes swept the floors. "There's nothing in here to cause that type of injury."_

" _I'm sure it's nothing." He waived off the concern he detected in the doctor's voice. He was getting better at hearing and understanding the nuances of speech; at least where John was concerned._

" _Sherlock, whatever your body is going through in the real world…it's bleeding over into this one. That's more than a bit not good." John blinked a few times and then tilted his head to the side. "Are you a doctor?"_

 _Sherlock looked like he'd swallowed something incredibly foul. "No. I'm not a_ doctor. As you bloody well know _."_

" _Well, lucky for you that I am. Let me take a look and see what I can do." John stepped over and pushed Sherlock down into the chair with the Union jack pillow…John's chair. (How did John's' chair get in here?) "Let me see." His fingers twitched with the need to help._

" _I'm fine." The dark haired man complained as he let himself be pushed down, his dressing gown billowing out as he settled into the chair. He hissed in pain when John's fingers slowly probed the lacerations to his feet. "It's just a scratch." The deep baritone was tightly controlled, but there was tension running along Sherlock's entire body as John continued to palpate the area._

" _It's not just a_ scratch _and you are not_ fine _." John sat back on his heels and shook his head, his blonde eyebrows pulled together as he considered the best course of action. "These are infected, Sherlock. And if it's that bad out there, it could kill you."_

 _Sherlock's attention caught on something that John had just said. "What did you say?"_

" _You're not fine—" John started to repeat._

 _Sherlock interrupted. "No, not that. After that."_

 _The doctor raised an eyebrow. "An infection could kill you in here if it is reflective of what's happening to your body out there."_

" _That's a bit more than you previously stated. But far more detailed, so that must have been me." There was a bit of a smirk shining through the pained expression when he glanced up the doctor._

" _I'm inside your head, Sherlock. Everything I say is 'you' talking." John wrapped the injured flesh in a bandage as he spoke gently._

" _Have you figured out what they want to know? Why they keep bringing you back to that…" John's voice broke on his last word. "…room?"_

 _Sherlock shook his head. He'd been dissecting everything the baron asked. Every question seemed to bring more questions and none of them had answers. At least not yet. He'd been inside Serbian Baron's custody for more than a week now and nothing had led him to the answers he was seeking. Sherlock needed to know the last piece of the puzzle. He needed the name of the man sent to kill John Watson. Without that information, he couldn't leave because John would still be in danger. And that meant he couldn't go home and there was nowhere in the world that the detective wanted to be more than at home, in London…with his friend at his side._

 _The John in his mind palace was poor substitution for the real thing. He had found it interesting that he hadn't hallucinated anyone else. On occasion Mycroft would make an appearance, but that was rare and only to belittle Sherlock's deduction skills._

 _John's quiet voice broke the silence that Sherlock had fallen into. "I'm not sure how much more of this you can take."_

 _Now it was Sherlock's turn to shrug dismissively. "As much as I have to."_

" _That doesn't even mean anything." John shot back angrily._

 _Multi-hued eyes turned on the man kneeling at his feet. "I refuse to die out here…alone."_

" _Then lets figure out how to get you out of there."_

 _More than anything Sherlock wanted to turn his attentions toward that,_ escape _. The idea of escaping the constant abuse and the pain was so very enticing._

" _Not yet." He answered in a broken whisper._

221B 221B

The taxi pulled up to St. Barts exactly twenty-two minutes after John had hung up with Lestrade. He quickly paid the cabbie and jumped out into the rain. His eyes lifted to the barely visible roof and John's heart plummeted. Within seconds he was right back where he'd been two years ago. All of the emotions that he had tried so hard to work through, or buried depending on whom one asked, crashed in on him like a tidal wave. He reached out and steadied himself against a lamppost as his knees started to buckle under the onslaught.

John took several slow breaths to try and steady his nerves before rolling up onto his toes once and then taking that first step toward the doors, towards Sherlock. No matter how he was feeling at this very moment, John had to find out what had happened to the consulting detective. Because now that he knew the man was alive, he couldn't go back to living in a world without the consulting detective.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story._


	4. Revelations

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

 _(This is the point where we_ _jump off into AU. Hope you enjoy it.)_

 _ **PLEASE REVIEW:**_ _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 4**

 _Revelations_

The antiseptic smell inside the whitewashed halls of the medical institution was comforting for a man that had spent the majority of his medical career surrounded by nothing but gunpowder and blood. He couldn't count the number of times he would have given his right arm (since he was left handed) for more antiseptic in the field. Thoughts of his glory days as an army doctor weren't going to do him any good at this point in time. He glanced up and took the second left. John Watson quickly navigated the corridors he knew far too well, heading in the direction of the A&E room.

The intermittent tremor in his left hand had him opening and closing his fingers several times in an effort to steady the shaking as he walked. The treacherous little tremor had returned with a vengeance the night that Sherlock _died_. It had settled a bit with the introduction of Mary into his life, but it hadn't disappeared all together. Only his association with the self-proclaimed _sociopath_ had done that. Funny, he hadn't ever really thought that the younger Holmes was a sociopath…at least not until he'd learned of the charade that had been perpetrated against him for the last two years.

Now John was fairly certain that both of the Holmes brothers suffered from some sort of mental incapacitation. Normal people didn't do things like this to other people.

The brisk pace John set almost sent him crashing into Lestrade as the DI stepped around a corner; a cup of coffee in his hand and a frown on his face.

"John?!" He blew out a slow breath, and then tipped his head toward the room he'd just walked out of. "He's still in surgery. There's coffee in the waiting area. It tastes like burned grounds, but it is hot and there's a lot of it."

John didn't want coffee. Right now all he wanted to know was what was going on with Sherlock. "How bad?" His medical training overrode the fear that he may be too late. That was probably a good thing because John wasn't sure that he would remember how to tie a butterfly stitch without his training…not at this particular moment. As Sherlock would no doubt deduce, "John's cognitive functions are definitely impaired." The internal deduction even had his friend's deep baritone.

Greg shook his head; taking a drink of the coffee that was rapidly going cold. Suddenly the detective inspector looked older, the lines beneath his eyes were more pronounced and John could see the _years_ reflecting out from his gaze when he finally sighed. "He's not good. They won't tell me any more than that."

John glanced over the DI's shoulder; a nurse rushed past with a silver tray full of medical supplies. Apparently the world wasn't going to stop spinning just because the man he'd considered his 'best friend' was lying on a surgery table fighting for his life. It occurred to John, in that moment, he wasn't the only one that would notice Sherlock's absence in the world. "Does Mycroft know?"

"He isn't Sherlock's emergency contact…"

The doctor's mouth opened and closed several times as that little _tidbit_ of information sank in and settled coldly inside his heart. _Sherlock chose me over Mycroft?_

The tiny twinge of guilt that had been hiding in a corner of his mind, ever since he'd hit the detective earlier that evening, blossomed into something more uncomfortable.

Greg's gaze tilted to the side and he continued to stare at the army doctor, assessing what he saw there. He finally shook his head; incredulous that John didn't know how much his friendship had meant to the consulting detective. "He never told you that, did he." It wasn't a question. It was an observation. He suppressed the internal voice of Sherlock that would have told him he was actually 'observing' and not just 'seeing'.

John sighed before finally shaking his head 'no'.

"Figures. The day after the whole cabbie incident, he called and changed all his emergency contacts to you." Greg watched as the information settled like a heavy weight on the shoulders of the emotionally damaged man. "Should have known that he wouldn't actually tell _you_."

Blue-gray eyes flashed up, pinning Lestrade with an intensity that would have been frightening had he not known the doctor so well, and John's shoulders tensed. "Sorry? Why wouldn't he have at least mentioned that I was his emergency contact?"

"Because Sherlock is terrible with things like that. He would not want to have a conversation about it. I suspect, if you asked him directly, he would say 'isn't it obvious?'"

John blinked slowly. "Not to me."

"You were his roommate, John. And I'm fairly certain he considered you a _friend_ after that first encounter. And I'm not sure that he had ever had one before you came along." The DI sighed. "You two need to have a proper conversation."

"We talked all the time before he…" John gulped down the lump that suddenly threatened to choke him. "…died."

"You may have _talked_. But neither of you were saying _anything_."

"When I figure out what that means, I'll come with a smashing reply." John said softly.

Greg gestured toward the waiting area. "Come on. It's more comfortable in there than out here." He shuddered. "I hate the smell of hospitals."

John clenched teeth before striding through the automatic doors after his friend.

221B 221B

Five hours later…

John stared through the small window into the room that had been assigned to Sherlock Holmes. The lights had been turned off with the exception of the one by a single chair sitting under the terrible excuse for a window. It was dark outside, so there were no rays of warmth creating an inviting atmosphere. The single bed surrounded by medical gadgets looked so _clinical_ and out of place with the silent, still form of the consulting detective lying in the center.

Sherlock was thinner than John ever remembered see his friend. In his shock and anger, John had refused to see what was right in front of him. Both at the restaurant and then later in the café, he had missed the signs of Sherlock's current physical condition. Not anymore…for the first time John saw the affects of the last two years. And it wasn't a pretty sight.

Sherlock was a mess. His cheeks were sunken and sallow. He'd recently had his hair cut and he was clean-shaven, but that couldn't cover up the weight loss or the pallor of his skin.

"He's strong, Dr. Watson. He'll pull through." Mycroft's haughty voice had John spinning to glare in his general direction.

He could see the brilliant mind of the older Holmes _reading_ the situation he now found himself in. John watched several reactions skitter across Mycroft's face before he wiped it clean of any and all emotions.

"You lied to me." John ground past the anger that was threatening to erupt. He clenched his fists at his side to keep himself from punching the _bastard_ in the face.

Before either of them could comment further a single whine from inside the room diverted their attention. "Shit." The doctor swore before shoving his way into Sherlock's room. The heart rate monitor screamed out in that long singular sound that every medical professional hates. The one that indicates the patient is flatlining.

"Sherlock, we're losing you!" John's voice trembled and his hands shook as he reached up to touch the dying man's shoulder. He was so caught up in what was happening that he missed the unknown man that stopped just outside the door. He watched the chaotic scene inside the room for a brief moment before he quickly walked off.

221B 221B

 _The room was dark and Sherlock could hear dripping from somewhere over his left shoulder._ It's probably a rusted pipe that finally gave way under the deterioration of the metal. I should do some experiments concerning the structural integrity of iron and long-term water exposure. _His mind supplied the deduction without his permission._

 _Sometimes having an intellect that assessed things so quickly was not a good thing…he just wanted some peace and silence. A shiver ran through his body and he winced at the pain it caused. His long legs were curled under him in an effort to keep the already infected cuts from soaking up more of the growing colonies of bacteria that were sure to live in the stagnant moisture gathered beneath him._

 _He was leaning back against the damp rock wall, his entire body reflecting the weariness of captivity. Sherlock shrugged the ratty blanket a little further up his thin frame._

 _He'd lost track of how long he'd been inside the prison. Days? Weeks? The sociopath wasn't sure if that was because he was drifting in and out of conscious thought or because he was losing faith that he might actually make it out of this alive._

 _The food, if it could be called that, had much to be desired. The bread was stale and he usually had to fight the rats for the bits he did eat. The water had a metallic taste to it and for a man that generally didn't concern himself with sustenance; he was finding that he really missed Mrs. Hudson's biscuits and John's tea._

" _You're getting worse."_

 _Sherlock's pale eyes lifted to where John now stood. He was leaning against the far wall, his arms folded and a worried expression staring back at the man on the floor. The tiny shaft of pale light that managed to filter into the room came only from a slit in the ceiling. It wasn't daylight…it was the glow from the single bulb inside 'the room'. His breath caught_ _at the thought of that room. Studying the effects of torture on victims was far different than experiencing it in person. It was truly de-humanizing._

 _The cell he had been thrown into wasn't very big, John could stand up straight but Sherlock, being quite a bit taller, could not. He was forced to stoop when he stood…if he had the energy to stand at all. Which wasn't often._

" _I know." His deep baritone was soft but tight with barely contained tension._

 _John was with him nearly every day now. Which meant that he was indeed losing his grip on reality. In his more lucid moments, the ones where Sherlock found himself alone, he would replay the information he'd learned so far; searching for the answer to his last question. He still didn't have the name of the final assassin, but he had managed to rule out the baron as a suspect. The man was too stupid to be an accomplished assassin._

 _He kept asking Sherlock the same inane questions. The baron never deviated from his established set of questions. It was that fact that made it impossible for the consulting detective to discern what the man knew or did not know about Moriarty's web and John's assassin in particular._

 _At this point Sherlock knew that the baron was providing money and manpower for something big; something that had the potential to destroy more than just London. All the clues were there, but Sherlock couldn't seem to organize them into cohesive, actionable plans._

 _John sighed and then moved to squat down in front of the pale man huddled on the filthy excuse for a floor. "We need to get you out of here."_

 _Sherlock blinked several times, trying to clear the blurry double image of his friend. "I can't. Not until you're safe." He managed to get the words past his chattering teeth._

" _You do realize I'm already safe…in London, right?" John asked softly. His eyes travelling over Sherlock as he spoke, he was looking for injuries, but there were too many to choose from. "This was a mistake, Sherlock."_

 _The consulting detective lifted his tired eyes and was met with the concerned blue gaze of the army doctor. "This is an unfortunate turn of events, I'll grant you that." He forced a small smile. "But I cannot bring myself to regret saving your life." The smile slipped from his lips and he averted his eyes. "And if the price is my life for yours? I will gladly pay that a hundred times over."_

 _"I would never ask you to do that." John responded quietly._

 _"No. You did not."_

 _The creaking of iron against iron pulled Sherlock's gaze toward the rusty door. He didn't want to go back to the 'room'. The icy claws of fear dug deeper inside him; he couldn't stop the tremors that surged through his abused muscles giving away his internal struggle._

 _Within moments he found himself bound and being dragged back toward, what he could now solidly call,_ hell _._

 _Sherlock gulped in a breath as his head was hauled up out of the water. He spluttered and coughed in an effort to clear his lungs. His shoulders were aching from the forced position and his legs trembled with the effort of holding himself upright. He'd barely managed to catch his breath before his head was again shoved beneath the surface of the water_ _. Again. And again. And again._

 _Today there had been no questions. The man hadn't said one word to Sherlock before he'd started trying to drain the life out of the detective. There weren't many days like this, but when they came around they tore at Sherlock's precarious grip on his sanity. He was a man motivated by the search for answers and not gleaning any information, as he was tortured, was one of the worst things that could be inflicted upon him._

 _His lungs burned with the need to breathe and the pressure inside his head was blurring his ability to reason a way out of the situation he now found himself in. He could feel consciousness slipping away when the man didn't pull his face out of the water quickly enough. He started to struggle with strength he didn't think he still possessed. Sherlock needed to breathe and he knew that the minute he did; he would be lost. His life would be forfeit because of the weakness of his transport. Breathing may not be as boring as he had thought. His throat ached with the effort to keep his mouth closed and his nose from filling with the filthy water._

 _His vision began narrowing at the edges. Darkness threatened to drag him under and he knew that this was it…this was the moment he couldn't avoid…the predetermined meeting in Sumara...his own death._

 _John's words seemed to be screamed from somewhere far away. "Sherlock, we're losing you!"_

 _The fear he heard in his friend's voice gave him the strength to kick out behind him catching the man trying to drown him on the inside of his knee. Contrary to popular belief, the nerve bundle on the inside of the knees is actually more painful that a kick to the crotch. Besides it wasn't as though he could actually 'aim' the strike. This was trial and error time._

 _It had the desired effect…the man howled in pain and stumbled back from Sherlock. He surged up out of the water and sucked in great heaping gasps of the precious oxygen his transport had been deprived of._

 _He slid to the floor, his knees colliding painfully with the stone before he leaned his arms on the edge of the basin and simply took pleasure in_ breathing _._

221B 221B

John could do nothing more than watch as the medical staff struggled to save Sherlock. He was again thrust into memories he had no wish to relive. The feeling of helplessness as people who did not know, and certainly did not care, tried to keep Sherlock from 'giving up the ghost' was indescribable.

He heard a shuddered intake of breath and risked a glance over his shoulder. Mycroft was watching the entire scene with a blank expression. But the way he was holding his shoulders gave away the fact that he was breathing in short little pants as he too stared through the open doorway at the flurry of activity.

Within moments the steady whine had been reduced to a rhythmic beeping and the medical personnel slowly vacated the room. John quickly slipped inside and grabbed Sherlock's chart. His eyes widened as he read the medical evaluations.

"Oh, dear God…" John's knees buckled and he sank into the chair, the chart slipping from his fingers as full comprehension of what Sherlock had suffered descended on him.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you remain interested in the story._


	5. The Room

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

 _(This Chapter is quite DARK, please consider that before reading. Hope you enjoy it.)_

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

VERY DARK CHAPTER AHEAD…MIGHT BOTHER SOME PEOPLE…just a friendly warning.

 **Chapter 5**

 _The Room_

The medical implications of what he'd just read were vast. John couldn't stop the multitude of injuries, referred to in Sherlock's chart, from playing across his thoughts. The consulting detective had all the signs of vehicular trauma that appeared to be consistent with being struck by a car. But there was so much more.

There were the barely healed scars that indicated repeated beatings, not to mention still healing lacerations across his lower back. Sherlock had tears to the labrum in the shoulder joint; this type of injury was consistent with forced and prolonged overhead hanging. Normally John wouldn't know all that much about that kind of thing. But he had studied torture-related injuries being that he had been assigned, while in the army, to an area where some of the chaps he'd treated had been held captive…and suffered all that that meant.

Sherlock had a serious bacterial infection that was running amuck in his internal systems. Antibiotics were, currently treating the not-so-little problem, and John wondered how he had missed those signs when he'd seen his friend earlier that evening. The flushed skin would have been a dead give away, had John been paying attention.

But these weren't what had him clamping his lips together in denial. The consulting detective had a severe concussion and the former army doctor couldn't be certain that _he_ hadn't been the cause of that…or in the least contributed to the medical condition.

John simply hadn't been able to see past his own hurt and anger to really _see_ Sherlock as he'd sat across from him and Mary in the café. _Had his pupils been blown then? Did I do this to him…?_ There were older fractures consistent with prior skull damage that was identifiable on the Cat scan. One of them had been deemed fairly recent. The bones hadn't completely healed yet. Previously broken ribs that had been shifted by the impact of the car, or had it happened when John had tackled him to the ground? The uncomfortable feeling in his gut grew into full-blown guilt at those thoughts.

At some point the consulting detective had broken his right ankle; it had healed wrong without medical attention. Which meant that Sherlock would need another surgery to re-break the ankle and set it properly. Otherwise there was a possibility that he could lose mobility as the joint continued to heal around the calcification of the bone.

All of these thoughts took only a few moments to pass through John's conscious thoughts. He lifted emotion-filled eyes to Mycroft. "What happened while he was away?" It was barely more than a whisper.

Mycroft took long deep breath and looked away from the concern shining out of John's blue gaze. "From what I understand? A lot."

"Yeah, I can see that." John bit out. He was irrationally angry at the moment and he wasn't entirely sure whom he was angry at. Was it Sherlock? Could it be Mycroft? Molly? _Don't be an idiot, John. You know exactly who you're pissed at._ He would have expected that little gem to come from his friend, but it was his own voice that informed him of his own idiocy.

He scrubbed his palm through his greying blonde hair and shook his head before turning a steady glare on the eldest Holmes. "I've got all night."

Mycroft sighed, then nodded. "During his _sabbatical_ , Sherlock spent much of the time running down everyone in Moriarty's network. But there were times that he…"

John watched the brilliant man struggle for the words. "Got caught in the spider's web?" He supplied.

"That is more accurate than you know, Dr. Watson." Mycroft's gaze shifted over John's shoulder to focus on the still form of his younger brother.

"Enlighten me?"

221B 221B

 _It was disappearing. All of the knowledge that Sherlock kept locked inside his mind palace. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases were nothing more than flat white walls now. The color had begun leaching out of the rich wood that lined the windows and doorways. The lights at the end of the endless corridors had dimmed to dull representations of illumination; they had eventually ended in a bleak darkness that engulfed everything. Sherlock did not venture into the inky blackness at the end of the halls or at the base of the staircase…not anymore. He was well aware of what lurked in the lower levels of his mind palace._

' _The grit on the lens.'_

' _The fly in the ointment.'_

' _The virus in the data…'_

 _Sherlock was reminded of an American movie he'd seen as a child. 'The Neverending Story', in it the world was being destroyed by the 'nothing'. The beast that was devouring the entire world and creating a darkness that threatened to eliminate all that resided in the fantasy world…it had been the 'virus in the data'. He'd been fascinated with that movie. Sherlock had watched it so often he'd committed the entire thing to memory. Now that cherished and hard earned data was being deleted…and not by him._

 _His mind was no longer his own._

 _Sherlock did not have the strength to glide from room to room checking on the stored bits of information. In fact, he never moved from the rooms he'd assigned to John. He was terrified that if he did, his friend would disappear too and he would truly be…alone._

" _Is it time, now?" John's worried words broke through Sherlock's pensive thoughts. He still didn't know how long he'd been in the baron's custody, but it was months. And over that time his defensives had been eradicated by the constant torture and lack of interaction with anyone but the baron or the men that worked for him._

 _He lifted his pale eyes to where John stood. He was just inside the door, leaning against the frame. Behind the doctor was the encroaching darkness. Sherlock blinked slowly and finally sighed before pushing himself up onto unsteady legs. His muscles screamed in protest and his feet felt as though they were being seared off the ends of his body. The pain screamed throughout his entire system disrupting the normal operating tempo of his recklessly fast mind._

 _John didn't wait for him to answer. "Sherlock, this is going to kill you. You need to get yourself out."_

221B 221B

"So they tortured him…drugged him." The pain of knowing was so much worse than John had ever thought it could be. He'd known men that had gone through what Sherlock had. None of those men had ever fully recovered, because it wasn't the wounds that been their undoing…it was their minds.

Sherlock had the strongest mind of anyone that John had ever known, but he wasn't unbreakable. The doctor prayed silently that he would never see the day that Sherlock was presented with a situation where his only course of action was to tumble down a slippery slope lined with mind-numbing drugs.

"How did he finally get out?" John snorted. " _When_ did Sherlock get out?" His eyes flickered to his friend and he ground his teeth together in response to the anger rippling through him. He had every intention of finding the sodding bastard that had run the younger Holmes down in the street. Mary would understand…

"Which would you like me to answer first?" Mycroft asked flatly.

"When?"

"Three days ago."

John's fingers twitched at his sides. "How?"

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows in response and pressed his lips together. He seemed to decide on something before he answered John's question. "I went undercover. My operatives had located Sherlock's whereabouts roughly two weeks ago. A threat to London needed my brother's particular talents. So I went to retrieve him."

The shorter man processed the information he was being given, but part of him remained skeptical. He didn't trust Mycroft Holmes, he never really had and he wasn't going to start now. John was fairly sure that the man's secrets had secrets. "Meaning you knew where he was and what was being done to him, but that wasn't a good enough reason to get him out." It was an observation, not a question.

 _221B 221B_

 _His arms were stretched out between two points on the walls. The manacles bit into the tender flesh of his wrists and his shoulders screamed in fiery agony as they were forced to take the full weight of his thin body. The baron kept asking who had sent him and what was it he thought he'd find?_

 _Between the baron's fists and the long lead pipe that the man had decided made a great bat, Sherlock wasn't sure how much longer he'd remain conscious. He knew that he didn't want to get locked inside his mind palace. The place was falling apart the long he remained a captive in this bloody prison. Some where during the latest set of questions, another soldier had entered the room and settled down to watch. It was the first time that there had been more than one of them in the 'room' with him._

 _Sherlock's pale gaze lifted and he peered through the long greasy strands of hair. Across the room from his hanging position was John Watson. His 'blogger's' face was full of remorse and concern as he stared back at the suspended man._

 _221B 221B_

 _The enormous John-room of Sherlock's mind palace looked even larger without the stacks of books and the comfy chairs sitting in front of the warm, bright fireplace. The consulting detective was staring at the area where the fireplace had been only moments before...now that space was just...empty. (What is happening to me?) He was losing his grip, not only on reality, but also inside his own mind._

 _"Sherlock, you have to get the baron out of that room." John said softly as he watched the other man start to teeter on unstable legs. The blue dressing gown was hanging off his thin frame, accentuating the weight loss._

 _Sherlock's knees finally gave out and he slid to the floor in a heap of exhausted muscles. He bit back the pain that nearly overwhelmed him._

 _John rushed to his side gently slipping his arms beneath Sherlock's elbows and carefully helped the consulting detective to his feet, allowing him to settle back into the one remaining chair. "It's getting worse. You know I'm right." It wasn't the one that John frequented; it was a white plastic chair…like the ones found in hospital rooms._

 _Sherlock didn't answer. The cunning intellect that had drawn the army doctor to the sociopath appeared to be stalled out due to the rising levels of pain. "How can you make him leave?" the doctor asked softly._

 _The world's only consulting detective's gray-green gaze lifted to meet the dark stormy blue eyes of his best friend. "His wife…is cheating on…him." Sherlock pulled in a ragged breath._

" _Use it, Sherlock. Use. It. Get him out of there before he kills you."_

" _What about your—"_

" _Assassin?" John finished through clenched teeth. "You think I give a bloody bit about an assassin if you die?"_

" _You should." Sherlock said softly._

" _Tell you what, you make it back alive, then ask the other me…in the other place. See what he says about it." John's words were cut off when Sherlock's back arched and a silent scream of agony contorted his pale features._

 _221B 221B_

 _The lash fell over and over until Sherlock could no longer support any of his own weight. He'd lost track of the individual lines of agony ripping their way across his lower back. When he finally crashed to his knees he felt something rip inside his shoulder and a steady burning pain lit up his right side. The baron stepped around the pillar and leaned in, asking his ridiculous question…again._

" _Who sent you?"_

 _For the first time Sherlock answered. The words were soft and the man sitting, with his legs up, leaned forward in an effort to hear what was being said._

 _The exchange only took a few moments and then the baron was rushing from the room. The pipe had slipped from his hands, forgotten, in his haste to catch his wife cheating on him._

221B 221B

The sudden jerking of Sherlock's body had John rushing into the room. He watched for a fraction of a moment as the convulsions wracked the thin man's body. But he couldn't only stand it for seconds before he raced forward, immediately trying to help where he could. He was shocked at the heat radiating off Sherlock's body. "Jesus…he's burning up."

Mycroft stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes pleading with John to save his little brother. Because for all his power, Mycroft Holmes didn't know how to heal people and he couldn't think of anyone he'd rather have helping Sherlock than John Watson.

"Save him, John." The doctor barely heard the whispered words as the machines started to whine as Sherlock's oxygen stats started dropping.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story._


	6. Assassin

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

 _(Thank you for your continued support through reviews and views of the story. Hope you enjoy the newest chapter.)_

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

Sherlock's unanswered question has an answer coming...wait for it...

 **Chapter 6**

 _Shadow_

The medical side of his brain kicked in with a vengeance and John found himself barking orders to anyone within the hearing distance of his voice. He had spent too many years in the military barking orders to those around him to care how he came across. This included Mycroft…

"There is towels in the bathroom, soak one in cold water and bring it to me." His tone had the elder Holmes squaring his shoulders, almost like he intended on refusing and then re-considering. He simply nodded once and disappeared inside the small room, returning moments later with the soaking wet towel.

John laid it across Sherlock's fevered forehead and glanced up as the nurse finally made an appearance. She didn't immediately interrupt what he was doing, at least not until he addressed her. "Can you go get his attending physician?" It was softer than the way he'd addressed Sherlock's older brother, but no less powerful.

She nodded quickly and scurried from the room. John's attention returned to the task at hand. Sherlock had stopped convulsing, but his body was flushed and he'd stopped sweating, which wasn't a good sign under normal circumstances, and definitely not under the conditions the consulting detective now found himself in.

Mycroft had settled against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest, as was characteristic of him when he was assessing a situation, John noted. He had managed to wipe his emotional response, to what was happening and now stared, almost bored, at the former army doctor.

The doctor raised angry eyes and bit back the thoughts that were threatening to burst from his lips, unfiltered. This was entirely Mycroft's fault. Had he allowed Sherlock to keep John in the loop, it was completely possible that this never would have happened. He ignored the tiny voice inside his head that told him if he had gone with the detective he would not have met Mary…and that would have been a 'bit not good'. But this voice was soft enough that John ignored it. This wasn't about him; this was about the man lying in the hospital bed.

He was still angry with Sherlock, but nowhere near as much as he had been twelve hours ago. At this point John was just praying that he would not have to attend the man's funeral…again. He was fairly certain that would break what was left of his resolve.

Unable to ignore the _elephant_ in the room any longer, he addressed Mycroft. "You did this." He ground out between breaths as he shifted the wet towel to another position.

Mycroft frowned. "I assure that I—"

"What? That you didn't mean for him to be tortured? That you didn't mean to put me through living hell for the last 2 years?" John glanced up at the taller man. "What exactly can you _assure_ me of?"

The elder Holmes's blue eyes shifted to his brother's still form and then back up the angry gaze of Sherlock's best friend. "I never intended for him to get hurt."

The doctor's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "What the hell did you think was going to happen? You sent him, head first into a trap set by the most cunning and manipulative man that England has ever seen. How can you be so smart and yet so stupid at the same time?!"

Mycroft squared his shoulders at the insult before taking a deep breath. "You do not have all the facts, Dr. Watson."

Another set of convulsions pulled John's attention back to Sherlock. He didn't get the chance to answer the other man before the attending assigned to Sherlock's case burst into the room along with two nurses. The man's brown eyes shifted between John and Mycroft. John didn't know what expression he was wearing, but it must have been _something dangerous.._. Because the physician didn't immediately shove the army doctor out of the way, as was his right, and take over. Instead he nodded, a professional courtesy, allowing John to be the one to take a step back relinquishing the care of the man in the bed to the attending.

John watched with sharp eyes as the assigned medical staff moved to replace him at Sherlock's bedside. All he could do was now observe and pray that he got the chance to make this whole thing right. That the last words he uttered to Sherlock Holmes weren't in anger nor colored by hurt.

He didn't say anything to Mycroft as he moved to stand next to the taller man. John watched the medical work to lower Sherlock's temperature. Ice packs were placed along his sides and under his arms…well, pretty much anyplace a major artery was near the surface of the epidermal layer. It was the quickest way to reduce a fever and one that John has used in the field on several occasions.

His mobile vibrated inside his jacket pocket. It was a text, from Mary.

* _How is Sherlock?_

John scrubbed his hand down his face. The stress of the day was starting to take a toll on him. He could feel his nerves starting to fray and he was tired. So very tired. He quickly typed a response.

* _Honestly? He's a mess._

She typed something on the other end. John watched the little dots that indicated she was responding. They flickered in and out on the screen of his mobile; he found his mind wandering only to be pulled back by the vibrating mobile.

 _*Can I do anything?_

 _God I love this woman._ John thought as he responded.

* _Not really. He's in good hands._

* _I meant for you, love._

John considered her question before he responded. Was there anything _anyone_ could do for him at this point? Probably not… _*I'm okay._

 _*You're really not. If you need anything, let me know. Love you._

* _I will. Love you too._

He placed his mobile back inside his jacket and returned to staring at the scene in front of him. Watching Sherlock cling to life made him wonder what exactly he'd been so angry about earlier.

221B 221B

 _Sherlock's fingers shook as he grabbed the railing that lined the upper balcony above the long staircase. His eyes widened at the roaring sound that seemed to be reverberating throughout his mind palace; drowning out everything. It almost sounded like a waterfall. But while he knew he was losing control of this place, he was absolutely certain that he hadn't taken a page out of a Batman comic and built his mind palace over a cave with water and bats. He cast his gaze about looking for his friend. Sherlock was sure at what point he'd lost track of the blogger and now he wasn't sure if he could find him again._

 _The rooms that had been assigned to the army doctor were now nothing more than an empty white stage. There was nothing left of the methodically stored facts that had been there only hours before. He was no longer able to pull up the massive archives of information, it was almost as if…his mind was tearing itself apart in the real world…burning up…scorching his memories from his brain._ Stupid transport. _He thought irrationally._

" _John?!" He called down into the darkness. He couldn't find his friend. At some point, John has disappeared and the only place left to look was down in the depths of what Sherlock considered, the basement…the catacombs…the graveyard. His eyelids dropped closed and he inhaled an unsteady breath before he began the slow descent into his own private hell._

 _The rushing sound of water was nearly deafening. The risers of the steps became increasingly less sturdy as Sherlock approached the end of his journey. "John Watson? Where the bloody hell are you?" His voice broke on the plea. He knew that what he was searching for was nothing more than his own conscience. John represented the part of himself that was able to_ feel _. And Sherlock was in great need of that power right now. He needed to feel something beyond the pain or the loss and despair. He had been locked in here for too long and he could no longer see his way out of the darkness._

 _He couldn't see his hand in front of his face it was so dark. Sherlock's foot slipped between two rotten boards and he hissed as his ankle twisted painfully._

" _You shouldn't have come down here, Sherlock." Moriarty's voice flooded every sense and the detective could do nothing but ignore it. His entire body quivered with hatred for the man that had cost him 'everything'. "You don't have anything to say?" The voice shifted as Sherlock stumbled to the final landing. "My my my…you do realize I'm your shadow?"_

 _Sherlock finally found his voice, though he didn't venture away from the bottom of the stairs. "Shadow?"_

 _The figure had yet to turn around. "The dark little thing that follows you every time you find yourself standing in the light. The antithesis of Sherlock Holmes…I'm you. Or I'm what you could have become had you applied yourself a little harder."_

 _This wasn't the first time that Sherlock had considered that outcome. He knew that if he'd applied his skills in another way he could very easily have become what Moriarty had…a consulting criminal instead of a consulting detective._

 _He blinked several times and his eyes finally landed on a small candle burning in the distance. The flickering yellow light cast a shadow over a person seated cross-legged on the stone floor. Sherlock leaned heavily against the peeling plaster on the wall and gathered his reserves. He couldn't face Moriarty otherwise. The last time he'd gone up against the criminal genius, Sherlock had had to fake his own suicide just to survive the encounter._

" _Where's John?" Sherlock's voice was steady despite his inner turmoil. He had no intention of letting his maniac see him sweat._

" _Your loyal foot soldier?" Moriarty laughed and it was a hateful sound, full of rage and emotions that the detective didn't fully understand. When he'd first started dueling with the consulting criminal, Sherlock had thought that the man was cleverer than anyone he had ever met. And he was…brilliant. But he was also ruled by his emotions, something that the younger Holmes brother had struggled to control his entire life. He had no intention of being one of those irrational lunatics that allowed the fuzzy lens of_ emotion _to influence his life. Apart from John…the army doctor could elicit an emotional response from Sherlock without really trying. It was both incredibly frustrating and refreshing at the same time._

" _Come closer, Sherlock." His voice had a sing-song tempo to it and it made the hairs on the back of the detective's neck stand on end. "Come on…I'm not going to answer your question until you do."_

" _Why should I?" Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't have a choice and he knew it. Something was happening to his physical body on the outside and whatever it was had trapped him inside the rapidly reducing walls of his mind palace. The only solace that he'd been able to find had been in the memories of his friendship with John Watson; at least in the version that he'd created inside the safety of his own mind. Now he'd had that taken away from him as well._

 _The figure on the floor sighed loudly. "Because I asked nicely."_

 _Sherlock frowned. There was something in the way that Moriarty answered that scared him. The consulting criminal knew something that he did not…and the man was dying to tell him. He ignored the voice of reason (it sounded an awful lot like John) and slowly made his way through the pressing darkness; toward the figure and the single flame candle. The rushing water almost became a background noise that could be ignored…almost, but not quite._

" _Where is John?" Sherlock asked again as he closed the distance in several long, if stilted, steps. He stopped about six feet from the seated figure. Moriarty had certainly seen better days. His hair was shaggy and he was extremely dirty, the straightjacket that bound his arms to his chest was stained and smelled like spoilt milk._

 _In one fluid motion Moriarty was on his feet. He twisted so that he was facing Sherlock; an unsettling smile spreading from ear to ear. "Closer, Sherlock." The chains that encircled his feet rattled as he shifted his weight and tilted his head. "Just a few more steps."_

 _Sherlock ignored the inner voice that urged him to turn and run. Go back to the empty rooms upstairs, they were far safety than where he now found himself. But this was for John and he couldn't leave his friend (imaginary or not) to the ministrations of Moriarty. He took a step. The immense pain in his physical body was nothing compared to the shock when suddenly Jim surged forward and slammed his shoulder into Sherlock's chest knocking him backwards. His head cracked against the stone flooring and he immediately saw bursts of light as his body went rigid, like a seizure or something._

" _I told you I'd burn the heart out of you." Moriarty knelt beside the concussed man. "I never told you it would be literally. He reached out with his right foot and knocked the candle over. The flames burst forth, and spread as if there had been a petrol spill._

 _Suddenly Sherlock found himself completely alone…just him and the fire that was now licking its' way along the edge of the walls. He could feel the heat as he watched the blurry fire begin a slow crawl toward him._

 _Without warning his ability to breathe was cut off. He rolled onto his side and tried to force his resistant transport to do what it was required to do…breathe, despite of the fire trying to sear his lungs from his chest._

 _221B 221B_

John sat in the small white chair against the far wall, watching everything. He knew that he didn't need to keep a constant vigil over Sherlock. His doctor's and nurses were well aware of the precarious edge of life that the detective was now balancing upon. But John couldn't leave. He had tried, but the blogger hadn't even made it to the lobby before he was rushing back toward the room.

The lights had again been reduced to little more than a dim glow. John could hear the staff bustling around in the hall outside Sherlock's assigned room. But his attention was completely focused on the man in the bed. He couldn't count the times that he'd heard Sherlock tell him 'breathing, breathing is boring'. But after watching the consulting detective's heart stop, twice, John was convinced that breathing might be the least boring thing in the history of the world.

He pulled in a long slow breath and turned toward the small bathroom. _He isn't going to die if you take a piss._ He thought to himself before slowly standing and stretching to pop the kinks out of his back. John hurried to relieve himself and then quickly washed his hands. As he stepped from the bathroom his attention was called to Sherlock's bed. And his eyes widened at what he saw there…standing above the consulting detective's bed was a man...

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story._


	7. The Fall

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

 _(Cannot THANK YOU all enough for the AWESOME REVIEWS! Hope you enjoy the next long chapter.)_

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

Some content creatively used from other episodes in series 3, don't be shocked…just a friendly warning. Also, please excuse any typos or missing words, not beta and all that...

 _ **Chapter 7**_

 _The Fall_

 _Three minutes earlier…_

The unknown man stared down at the dark-haired detective lying in the bleach-white hospital bed. There were dark purple bruises forming along his pronounced cheekbones, the ones that most women would kill for. The split at the crease of his full lips looked painful. A gash along the hairline had been sewn together with several dark stitches, which stood out in stark relief against the unnaturally pale skin; pulled together what had to have been a very nasty cut. He leaned toward the unconscious man's ear. "You should have died in the _room_ , Sherlock." He whispered. "Compared to what I have in store for you, it would have been a far kinder death."

He reached down and pinched Sherlock's nose closed effectively cutting off the oxygen supply. Within seconds Sherlock was wheezing, his entire body fighting to survive on an autonomic level, even if his mind was still locked away and unable to offer direction.

The monitor, situated next to the headboard, started to whine, the man immediately reached over and clicked off the sound. The thin line on the display jumped in response to Sherlock's changing stats. He watched as the consulting detective's entire body tensed in an unconscious response to the deadly actions.

Footsteps scurried up and down the hallway on the other side of the door. The hospital staff never suspected what was happening, less than five feet from them, inside the small hospital room. His eyes flickered toward the door and then back to his task…killing Sherlock Holmes.

The toilet in the attached bathroom flushed once and he immediately stepped back allowing the detective to resume breathing normally. Several unconscious gasps later, Sherlock's breathing evened out. The machine's sporadic readings settled back into the nominal peaks and valleys of a sleeping patient. It all happened so quickly that when the door to the bathroom opened, nothing in the room appeared out of order.

221B 221B

John stepped out of the bathroom and instantly froze. There was an unknown man hovering near Sherlock's head, his hand resting lightly on the top of the headboard; his eyes scrutinizing the consulting detective in a way that made John very uncomfortable.

The cold fingers of doubt dug into the army doctor's gut. "Excuse me? Who are you?" John demanded in a tight voice as he stepped closer to Sherlock. He wasn't keen on having someone he did not know standing so close to the unconscious form of his friend. Sherlock wasn't in any condition to protect himself and John would be _damned_ if he was going to let anything else happen to him.

The man glanced up and licked his lips in a way that made John's skin crawl in disgust. "An old friend. Mr. Holmes and I spent some time together. He was my _guest_ for a while." He had a thick accent that the doctor couldn't quite place. But John's gut was telling him that this man was no friend to Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, well…my _friend_ isn't up to entertaining visitors at the moment." John took a menacing step forward; his fingers folded themselves into fists. "Perhaps you can come back when he's conscious?"

A dark shadow passed quickly across the man's features before he smiled. It wasn't the kind of smile that John would expect from a _friend_. It was of a more malevolent nature and had John's fingers ghosting over the pocket where he usually stowed his pistol. _Damn. It's at home._ He hadn't anticipated on needing to shoot someone when he'd been hauled out of his flat by Lestrade's phone call.

"You must be Dr. John Watson." It was not a question. This man knew exactly who John was and he did not appear shocked at finding the doctor in Sherlock's hospital room. "I have heard so much about you." He stepped away from the head of the bed and turned his disarming gaze on John. The army doctor had the distinct feeling he was being assessed. Measured. He must have passed muster because the look on the other man's face shifted to a more pleasant one.

"Pity I can't say the same, Mr…." John queried. He was fairly sure that the man wasn't going to answer him; he was a bit surprised when…

"Moran. James Moran." Was supplied without hesitation. It was quite clear that not very much scared this man; John could tell _that_ even without Sherlock's deductive reasoning skills. After all, he was _observant_ , in his own way…just as Sherlock was quite blind in others.

 _Tragic that your skills seemed to have abandoned you earlier, you might have saved Sherlock from this fate._ John couldn't stop the hateful thought from washing through his mind. He immediately shoved it way down deep; he would address that nasty little ball of guilt at a later date. Now was not the time for self-pity or any other self-reflective notions.

John hauled in a deep breath and then positioned himself between Moran and Sherlock. "Mr. Moran, you are outside of visiting hours."

The taller man smiled again before nodding once and then moving toward the door. He turned and looked at John one last time. "So I am. Catch you later, Dr. Watson." His dark gaze flickered over John's shoulder, landing on Sherlock. "Give him my best. Tell him 'The answer to his question is, Moran.' Can you do that? Tell him that for me?"

The blonde ground his teeth together. "What question?"

"The one he asked over and over again. He'll understand the message."

He wanted this man out of Sherlock's room. He didn't know why. He only knew that he did. "I'll pass that along."

Moran's demeanor switched, like a light bulb, and he smiled kindly. "I would be quite grateful, Dr. Watson. Thank you." He mock bowed and then swiftly disappeared through the door.

John blew out the nervous breath he'd been holding and his worried gaze flashed down where Sherlock's silent form rested. The man had no right to look so innocent, but he did and it pulled at the doctor's heart. This confusing, arrogant...boy-scientist was the best and wisest man that John had ever known and he loved Sherlock like a brother...whether he wanted to or not.

He sank bonelessly into the plastic chair next to the narrow bed. John didn't know where to start, he had so much to say to Sherlock and yet his mind was a complete blank. The detective had literally ripped apart the duct-tape and staples that had been holding John's psyche together when he'd… _died_. The thought of those months had the doctor scrubbing his hands back through his graying blonde hair. He'd never been one to condemn other people for reaching the end of their rope and he understood how a person could reach that point. He had been there two times in his life and he'd been saved by two different people…and one of them was now fighting for his life.

John pulled out his phone. He needed to tell Mycroft about the man in Sherlock's room. The anger that poured into him at the thought of having to involve the pompous older Holmes was nearly overwhelming, but Sherlock's safety was worth more than John's pride. He dialed the number, Mycroft answered almost immediately.

"Dr. Watson. What's wrong?" Nothing in his voice betrayed the emotions John was sure the other man must have been feeling. But the fact that he answered after only one ring told John everything he needed to know.

"Does the name James Moran mean anything to you?" the doctor didn't know what he'd expected but the immediate response wasn't it.

A hiss of air on the end of the line answered John's question before Mycroft could. "How do you know that name?"

"Well, he was here. In Sherlock's room."

The sound of chair being knocked over backwards caught John off guard. "Keep him the hell away from Sherlock. Do you understand me?"

The way he demanded John's cooperation immediately set the doctor's teeth on edge. He didn't respond well to threats, never had. Typically that had led to a fight…ones that he generally won. "Who is he, Mycroft?"

"It's better if you don't know."

"Nope. I want the truth. No more secrets, not when it involves Sherlock." He'd had it with the secrecy of the Holmes brothers.

There was a very long silence before Mycroft sighed. "He was the assassin assigned to kill you the day that Sherlock met Moriarty on the roof of Barts."

John's eyes closed slowly at the revelation. He hadn't let Sherlock explain why he'd faked his suicide. The detective had been excited to explain the 'how', but he hadn't gotten into the 'why' and John hadn't pressed. He'd been far to angry when he'd realized that Sherlock had told people that meant absolutely nothing to him about his plan, but not his _friend_. He remembered that day in Dartmoor when Sherlock had said that 'he didn't have _friends_ …he only had one'. But the way he'd shut John out didn't sound like friendship.

Mycroft continued when John's silence went on too long. "You didn't know that, did you?"

"We didn't exactly have a lot of time to catch up before…" John let the rest of the sentence hang in the air. He didn't want to finish that thought. He'd been the one to walk away earlier, not Sherlock.

"You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson all had guns to the backs of your heads. Sherlock made the only choice he could…he saved your lives." It was soft, but no less powerful as John listened in stunned silence.

221B 221B

 _Sherlock wheezed as the pressure on his throat lessened. He didn't have control over the mind palace, not at the moment. For no apparent reason the flames were suddenly gone and he was lying in the middle of the floor with no idea what the hell was happening. It was like a really bad drug induced manic episode and he hadn't had one of those in years._

" _Ah, I see…still not awake am I." He frowned at his surroundings._

 _It appeared as though the remnant of Moriarty was calling the shots. He struggled to his feet and quickly stumbled back toward the wall. The whooshing sound of water nearly overwhelmed him as he moved. "John?!" He called desperately, leaning against the wall for support._

 _From somewhere deep in the caverns of the mind palace a very quiet sound caught Sherlock's attention. He couldn't quite make out the words, but he knew that voice. It was John._

" _John?!" he called as he started toward the elusive sound._

 _The darkness pressed in on him and Sherlock sucked in a shaky breath. He was really starting to rather enjoy breathing. It was uncharacteristically 'not boring'._

" _Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep. You can't save him. Not this time. I would like to offer you my congratulations on being the first person in history to be buried in his own mind palace." Moriarty's words bounced through the black expanse and landed on Sherlock like a ton of bricks._

 _He stepped down onto an uneven surface and crashed to his knees sending painful bursts of agony spiking up through his body. He huffed in irritation as he bit down on his lower lip and forced his broken body back into an unsteady upright position. He would not let John down…not this time._

 _The water gushed and Sherlock followed the sound until he finally stepped out onto a precipice. The forty-foot waterfall was draining down into…nothing. It suddenly occurred to the detective that he couldn't see the bottom of the waterfall. He could, however, see inside the cavern room. He squinted up into the ceiling…only it wasn't a ceiling, it was the night sky, and there was a full moon shining down on him. "What the hell?" he whispered in confusion._

" _Hello, Sherlock." Moriarty said as he stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlight. His eyes briefly shifted over the edge of the precipice before returning to the detective. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stood still watching as the other man turned to look at him in silence. "What, nothing to say? How very unlike you."_

" _The setting is a shade melodramatic, don't you think?" He wasn't sure how to start this conversation, since it was really an argument Sherlock was having with himself. Knowing this important piece of information wasn't going to save him though, not this time._

 _Moriarty's gaze shifted around. "For you and me? Not at all." He finished after a dramatic pause. He was no longer the pitiful_ thing _that Sherlock had seen at the bottom of the stairs. This was a strong version of Jim Moriarty._

" _What are you?" he was fairly certain he knew the answer to this question, but it never hurt to validate the hypothesis._

 _Moriarty didn't crack a smile and his dark eyes seemed to be looking_ through _Sherlock. "You know what I am. I'm Moriarty. The Napoleon of crime."_

 _Sherlock's lip lifted in a sneer. "Moriarty's dead." He spat back._

" _Not in your mind. I'll never be dead there. You once called your brain a 'hard drive'. Well say hello to the virus. This is how we end, you and I. Always here. Always together."_

 _The detective balanced on his good foot as he watched the criminal mastermind slowly make his way toward him. "You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty. I admire it. I concede it may even be the equal of my own."_

 _A smile broke the sinister look on Jim's face. "I'm touched." Then it slid away as he continued. "I'm honored."_

" _You should be." Sherlock was stalling for time. He could fight the other man, but he wasn't in any condition to win. "Where's John?"_

" _Tucked away."_

 _Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I don't want to fight you. But if you insist that we engage in unarmed combat on the edge of a precipice. You're going in the water." He didn't feel the confidence he wove into his words. "Give me John and we'll leave you to this watery hell."_

 _It happened so fast that Sherlock didn't have time to prepare. Jim's hand shot out and he slammed the edge of his palm into Sherlock's unprotected throat._ The breathing thing again…dull.

 _Moriarty shot forward and grabbed Sherlock's ears, he slammed the consulting detective back into the rock wall. Sherlock's head bounced off the uneven surface of the granite. White sparks danced at the edges of his vision. But he couldn't lose this fight, John's life depended on it. At least the John that had been there for Sherlock over the last two years…real it not...he mattered._

" _You think you're so big and strong, Sherlock. Not with me." Moriarty taunted as he landed vicious kick to the detective's stomach. His ankle was throbbing painfully and his arms felt like they'd been soaked in lead. Sherlock was exhausted._

 _He was thrown to the ground. A kick swept across his chin and his head snapped to the side. "I am your weakness." Moriarty ground out angrily. "I keep you down." Another kick. "Every time you stumble. Every time you fail. When you're weak. I. Am. There." Each new angry statement was followed by another strike. Moriarty finally dropped to his knees over Sherlock, wrapping his fingers around the throat of the stunned man. "No. Don't try and fight it. Lie back and lose!" He hauled Sherlock to his unsteady feet and leaned his back out over the crashing depths of the waterfall._

" _Shall we go over together? It has to be together, doesn't it? It has to be, because in the end it's always just you and me."_

 _The sound of a throat being cleared interrupted the tirade. Two sets of eyes, one brown, one gray-green lifted to see the form of John Watson. He was carrying Sherlock's favorite pistol and sporting a smile. "He generally only speaks when he can improve the silence. If you wouldn't mind stepping away from my friend, I do believe he finds your attention a shade annoying."_

 _The two men locked in combat released one another slowly. Sherlock's eyes were now locked on John's and he watched as his friend stepped in to save his life._

 _Moriarty just looked confused. "You can't be here. That's not fair, there's two of you." It was petulant and childish, but somehow seemed in character for the criminal mastermind._

 _John smiled. "There's always two of us, don't you read my blog? On your knees Moriarty. Hands behind your head."_

" _Thank you, John." Sherlock finally managed past the lump in his throat. John stepped closer to the pair. "Do you mind? I do believe it's my turn."_

 _The consulting detective simply shook his head and took a step back. One boot to the b_

 _center of Moriarty's shoulders sent the man tumbling into the foamy white water cascading down the large cliff face._

" _It's time you woke up, Sherlock." John said after they were left alone on the precipice. "How do you plan to wake up?"_

 _Sherlock cast his gaze over the edge. "I do believe this will do the trick."_

 _Unconvinced, John furrowed his eyebrows. "Are you sure?"_

" _Between you and me, John. It's never the fall that kills you." With that he gathered his courage and leapt._

 _TBC…_

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story._


	8. Forgiveness

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

 _(This Chapter has a bit of angst, please consider that before reading. Hope you enjoy it.)_

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

This chapter is before the climax of the story, so it's just to explain where John and Sherlock are at, internally, before the action starts…just a friendly warning.

 **Chapter 8**

 _Forgiveness_

John circled the realms of consciousness; his thoughts were hazy and sluggish. He had, on occasion, felt his way after a night out. But he hadn't done much of that since moving into 221B. He could feel the drifting thoughts starting to solidify into the more concrete assessments of the fully aware. He shifted and groaned softly.

A seriously uncomfortable sharp, stabbing pain was plaguing his neck. _Great, I must have fallen asleep._ He thought irritably as he wove his way back into the conscious world. He swallowed, noticing the dry almost painful sensation in his mouth, he ignored it and sat up, allowing his body to crack and pop as he did. John's head had been resting on Sherlock's bed, near his feet. _Which is good thing, people might talk if I'd fallen asleep by his head._ He hadn't realized that he'd been so tired. He sat back and stretched the tight muscles again, ignoring the sting of pain in his shoulder.

"John?" Sherlock's weak baritone instantly pulled the doctor from his slow ascent into awareness. The doctor's gaze lifted to meet the tired, weak, and guarded pale eyes of his friend. The confusion that was clearly evident in the consulting detective's gray-green or blue eyes, depending on Sherlock's mood, tore at John. He would never want to see that look on _anyone's_ face, but especially not on Sherlock's.

"Yeah. I'm here." He said quietly. The weariness drained out of him instantly and he sighed as his practiced eye studied the injured man, looking for signs of discomfort. Sherlock had made a right mess of himself. The chest tube protruding under his right arm was evidence enough of that fact. And all of the little things that John hadn't been able to observe because of his anger were now glaringly obvious and he was worried. Very worried.

Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent. He was watching John's every move in spite of the strong cocktail of drugs and pain medication that the army doctor knew he was being given. All of the words that he wanted to say to the man lying in that bed suddenly abandoned him, leaving him with noting to talk about. John didn't know how to start this conversation…or any conversation, involving Sherlock, in fact. He wiped his hand down his face in an effort to stimulate his muted mind and then leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms.

Finally the uncomfortable silence got the better of Sherlock and he carefully shook his head. A grimace ghosted over his face and he looked away from John. "You don't have to be here." The words were so quiet that John barely heard them. And even then he had to play them over and over inside his head before his brain caught on to the meaning.

 _Sherlock thinks I'm here out of some sort of obligation?_ The thought stung, deeply.

221B 221B

Sherlock ignored the pulsating pain that was tripping through his body. He wanted so badly to turn up the morphine pump and slip away into a prismatic world that was strangely reminiscent of the inside of Willy Wonka's factory. _So, definitely not my mind palace…_

He would never ask John to be somewhere he didn't want to be. Okay, so that wasn't exactly true, Sherlock had demanded that John do all sorts of things the doctor hadn't been fond of. But that was _before_. Before the detective had known what life without John would be like. He could not give up his only friend, but he would not make the former army doctor stay with him if he didn't want to be there.

John's arms slipped to his sides and looked almost, deflated. He pulled in a long slow breath, like he was gathering his courage or something. The tiny knot of fear that had been sitting in Sherlock's gut blossomed into full-blown panic. He bit down on his lip and looked away. He was starting to reach for the morphine pump, if he just turned it up enough, then maybe he could just avoid waking up at all.

A soft tug on his left forearm stalled his actions and pulled his gaze back in the direction of the dark-haired man. The doctor's eyes softened and he looked genuinely worried. "You almost died." John managed around the lump threatening to choke him.

"Wouldn't be the first time." Sherlock answered without thinking. He wanted to delete the words the instant he saw them land on John like 10-ton weight. The blonde looked like Sherlock had slapped him, John's eyes widened and his gaze dropped away. "John…" Sherlock started and then he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Sorry didn't seem like it was enough. Although, he was sorry. Very sorry. More sorry than he had ever been in his entire life. Sherlock would spend the rest of his existence trying to make this up to John Watson. "Sorry." He muttered in a cracked whisper.

John shook his head. While he appreciated the effort it had taken for Sherlock to utter that one little word, it wasn't what he wanted to talk about, not yet. He has something of his own that needs to be said. "Thank you."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he swallowed. "What for?"

The doctor pulled his lower lip between his teeth and slowly pushed himself to his feet. Sherlock's body shook with barely contained emotions and he was afraid that John was leaving. Had John decided that he really didn't need Sherlock in his life? Now he had… _what was her name?_ He combed back through his memories looking for the face of the woman John had been at dinner with… _Mary._ His mind palace was still a mess, but some things a person doesn't forget.

With a shake of his head, the blogger answered, honestly. "For not dying…a second time." John answered. He smiled and reached down carefully taking Sherlock's hand in his. "I'm sorry I hit you." And he was.

"I'm sorry I deserved it." Sherlock responded without thinking.

That got a half smile out of John. "Yes, you did." He placed Sherlock's hand back on the bed. "Just don't do it again."

Sherlock didn't answer. He couldn't, his own emotions were too close to the surface at the moment and he didn't trust his voice not to betray that. He simply nodded. His eyes were dulled with medication and pain; it left John feeling concerned.

A soft knock on the door warned the two men of the impending interruption. John released Sherlock's hand and settled back into the chair near the bed. The nurse halted when she noticed that he was awake.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes…let just go get your doctor." She was almost out the door when he said.

"I have a doctor."

A small smile pulled at the corners of John's lips. The nurse glanced his way and simply nodded before exiting the room. "Where's Mary?" Sherlock asked. He was a bit unsure if his and John's relationship was repaired enough to ask this question.

John's gaze snapped over to him. "How is it that you can remember her name after an hour and you can't get Greg's right after 6 years?"

"Greg?" Sherlock queried. He knew the detective inspector's name, always had. But it was a great game to play with the policeman. Lestrade hated that Sherlock never got his first name right and the consulting detective knew it. John's head tilted to side and he sighed loudly.

"You know who he is." He said with some humor.

Sherlock didn't answer him, he did however, let his lips quark up into small smile. "Mary?" he asked again.

"She's at home."

The answer landed as a painful reminder that John had moved on from 221B Baker Street. His friend now resided in another flat somewhere in the city that Sherlock loved. "Oh…well, that's good." He pulled in a breath. "Mycroft?"

John's shoulders stiffened slightly at his older brother's name. It would take time for the doctor to forgive the elder Holmes, if he ever did… "I'm sure he's already been made aware of your improved status."

"What have I missed?" Sherlock asked as he shifted when a particularly painful spasm rocked his frail body. His eyebrows drew together as he internally managed the uncomfortable stabbing sensations. _Broken ribs…chest tube…_

"We can talk about it when you're feeling better." John answered as a way of deflecting Sherlock's question.

"John." His pale gaze pinned the doctor with a clarity that belied his current physical condition. "What happened?"

The doctor shook his head and pressed his lips together in frustration. Sherlock watched his friend struggle with information that he _really_ didn't want to relay. "John…"

'There was man. Here… and he was just standing over your bed. He wanted me to tell you the answer to your question, the one you kept asking in Serbia, is 'Moran.'"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he blinked several times. He'd spent so much time trying to find that one word. The name of the man that had been assigned to kill John Watson. And now he knew the damn name and he was stuck in hospital with tubes sticking out of his side, broken ribs, and a depleted immune system. And yet he no intention… _wait, that man was in the same room as John? Oh God…I have to end this…I have to finish what I started two years ago._ The entire conversation happened inside Sherlock's head. He had to get of the hospital…and John couldn't help him. Not on this. Because Sherlock could not, _would not_ , risk losing the doctor now.

"Does my brother know?"

John nodded. "I called him, once I chased the man out of the room. Sherlock, who is he?"

Sherlock swallowed. "No one."

"Why don't I believe you?" John asked quickly.

"I have no idea, John." He said as his gaze shifted away from the doctor's scrutinizing eyes.

"He said you would know who he was. He said that name was the answer to your question." he tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. "Which suggests that you are lying to me and that you _do_ know what that name means and who it belongs to." John groaned. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

Sherlock immediately lamented the fact that he was stuck in the hospital bed at the moment. He had no escape from the disapproving glare John was subjecting him to. So he did the only thing he could do...he played on John's bedside manner. "I'm tired, John. Can we discuss this after I get some sleep."

"You hate to sleep."

"Not right now I don't." There was some truth to that. His transport was a distracting mess at the moment. But mostly Sherlock just needed to get John out of the room so he could focus on the problem at hand. "Why don't go and get some tea...maybe a biscuit?"

John narrowed his eyes in response to the request. His mobile picked that exact moment to start ringing. John pulled it from his pocket and immediately answered it when Mary's name popped up. He pointed at the door, alerting Sherlock of his desire to step out into the hall to take the call. The injured man lifted a hand indicating that he was fine with it. He would just lie here and try to sleep. At least he hoped that's what John would imply.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story._


	9. Moran's Revenge

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

 _(HUGE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE THAT HAS LEFT A REVIEW! YOU'RE THE REASON THE STORY CONTINUES TO POST CHAPTERS SO QUICKLY. :) Also, no beta...just a reminder on that. Sorry for any mistakes._

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

This chapter is before the climax of the story, so it's just to explain where John and Sherlock are at, internally, before the action starts…just a friendly warning.

 **Chapter 9**

 _Moran's Revenge_

John leaned against the pale yellow wall in the hallway, his phone pressed tightly against his ear, listening as Mary talked about her day. The hospital was pretty quiet at the moment. Perhaps it was due to the rather unfortunate fact that it was nearly 2:30 in the morning. The staff had dimmed the lights in respect of those that needed to keep their doors open for medical reasons, but still wanted to sleep without lights glaring in their eyes all night.

"He's awake?" Mary finally asked, the excitement in her voice was somewhat infectious and John could not help the warm feeling that settled in his stomach. She really was something, his Mary.

"Yeah, he woke up about an hour ago." The statement felt like an affirmation that Sherlock was truly back. And it felt good.

"How is he? Is he okay?" John recognized the concerned tone of a nurse in Mary's tone and smiled. _Once a medical professional, always a medical professional._ He thought silently.

"He's a right mess. But he is showing improvement."

Mary laughed. "That's 'John speak' for he'll live." She effortlessly interpreted what he meant without even trying. "How about you? Are you okay? You sound tired."

John considered her question for a moment. He was tired. No, not just tired, he was exhausted. He'd been through the emotional ringer over the last three days and he was fairly certain it wasn't over yet. At some point he and Sherlock were going to have a conversation about all those little 'battle-wounds' he had collected since he'd been… _dead_.

But as his eyes scanned the silent, darkened hallway of Barts hospital, John could admit, at least to himself, that things were _good_. He had Mary. He had his best friend back. A person, that he'd thought, he would never share a meal with again, or an adventure.

"John?" Mary's soft voice pulled him out of his pensive thoughts.

"I'm okay." She didn't immediately respond, which meant that she didn't quite believe him. "I really _am_ okay, Mary. I didn't think I would be. But I am. He's alive and he'd back. Right now that's all I can ask for." He wondered how on earth he had managed to get everything he had ever wanted. John Watson didn't generally have good things in his life. His sister was an alcohol abusing, mean-spirited person and his parents were dead, good riddance to the bastard his father had been. But now he had Sherlock back and he had Mary, life was pretty damn good. A small part of him, the cynical part wondered when the other shoe would drop and destroy this happy moment. "I had better get back in there before he tries to turn the morphine pump into his own private drug donation device."

She laughed. "Alright. I love you." Mary said and then yawned on the other end of the line.

John said softly. "I love you too. Go to sleep, I'll call you in the morning." He pressed the 'end' button and started to slide the phone back into his pocket.

A slight stinging in the back of his neck caused him to reach up and swipe at the offending spot. Immediately his vision started to grey out, spiraling into a single point and his legs turned to jelly. John slid to his knees and then continued the downward momentum until he landed in a heap on the floor just outside Sherlock's room. As he started to fade into the darkness that was inevitable, he saw several booted feet heading toward him. This was not going to be good…and then John knew no more.

Several men, dressed in hospital attire, minus the boots that looked military, carefully lifted John onto a gurney. They covered him with a white blanket and within seconds, the doctor appeared to be just another patient. They immediately pushed the unconscious doctor toward an unknown fate.

221B 221B

Lestrade scrubbed his hand down his stubbled face. He stared at the amber colored liquid in the cheap glass before knocking it back and setting the empty glass on the battered table. It had been a rough week. Work had been tough with two kidnapping cases that left no clues and looked to go unsolved by Scotland Yard. He would generally have taken the evidence to Sherlock, but the consulting detective was in no state to help anyone. He'd barely survived the last seventy-two hours.

The tiny flat was sparsely furnished; with table in the kitchen slash dining area, a couch that doubled as the bed, and a pathetically small television. After the divorce it had been all that he could afford and since he spent almost no time at home, it had been fine. He had spent the intervening years struggling not to become the clichéd detective. The one that goes home to an empty flat and drinks himself to sleep at night just to silence the ghosts in his head.

One of those damn ghosts had a deep baritone voice and blamed him for not saving his life. Greg couldn't count the nights that he'd laid awake staring at the stained ceiling, listening to the rain outside and replaying the entire scenario with Sherlock and Moriarty in his head. He'd been searching for the one moment that he could have stopped the whole thing in its tracks.

He wasn't one of those cops that felt the need to be right all the time or that couldn't ask for help. That was one of the reasons he had the highest solved crime rate in the yard. He would reach out and ask for assistance if it would help solve the case. But when Sherlock had died, it had left a hole in Greg that had been difficult to fill. Alcohol helped, but it didn't alleviate the guilt he felt for not saving his friend.

Yes, he considered the great Sherlock Holmes a friend, a very inconsiderate, downright rude, and arrogant friend…but still a friend. He shook himself from the thoughts and reminded himself that Sherlock was not dead. The bastard had _faked_ his death and then shown up 3 days ago half dead after a car almost sent him to the grave for real. Greg hauled himself up onto unsteady legs and stumbled toward the couch. He fell onto the course fabric and sank into a familiar alcohol induced sleep.

His ringing cell phone destroyed his well constructed plan of a drunken sleep. Greg picked the evil little device up off the floor and squinted to see the screen. First thing he noticed was that the call was from Sherlock. Second thing he noticed was a missed text that was also from Sherlock with one word...

*HELP!

221B 221B

Earlier that evening...

 _Sherlock allowed his gaze to roam over the tall mahogany bookshelves. They were once again stacked full of facts and every important detail he'd amassed over his life. This room, 'the John room', was his favorite of all the rooms he had built over the years. In spite of the glaring fact that it was also the newest, it had an older feel to it that he loved. Sherlock couldn't stop the small smile that crinkled at the corners of his pale eyes as he looked at the order he had managed to reestablish. Things were not in the exact same places as they had been before, but there were again, well organized and he was fairly certain he could find anything should he desire._

 _The only thing that seemed to be missing was his mind palace version of John. Perhaps that was because now he had the real thing back? He wasn't sure and the uncertainty irritated him a bit. He moved to the leather chair in front of the fireplace and sank into it, steepling his fingers beneath his chin to contemplate his new lease on life._

 _His body was still broken out there in the real world and that small fact was tiring him out in his mind palace as well. He ignored the sharp stab of pain that radiated along his side and the odd sensation that was pulling near his ribs. Sherlock understood the science by which a lung was re-inflated allowing the fluid to drain from the body in order to avoid infection and place less stress on the organ as it healed._

 _But that wasn't what he was here to contemplate. Sherlock now knew the name of the man he needed to find and kill. But he was, currently, not at his best. Unfortunately, this meant that he couldn't just go popping after the man, he was going to need help. And while Sherlock would prefer to have John there watching his back, he wasn't sure if bringing the man that the assassin was supposed to kill 'to' the assassin assigned to kill him, was such a good idea. A bit like delivering a pizza to a man that wasn't supposed to eat carbs. Chances were that the man would take advantage of the pizza. Huh, comparing John Watson to pizza...I think perhaps, I might have a bit too much morphine in my system. It was not, afterall, good for working._

 _So…that meant that he needed to involve someone else…Lestrade._

 _221B 221B_

Sherlock blinked several times as he pulled out of his mind palace and landed back in a world of pain. He grimaced as he reflexively reached for the morphine pump and the stopped when he realized that he was alone in the room. He wasn't exactly sure how long he'd been inside his own thoughts, but he was certain that John should have returned from his call with Mary. And yet…Sherlock was most definitely alone. His gaze shifted to the small window, the sun was fully up so it had been hours, not minutes. _Where are you, John?_

A knock at his door had his eyes flashing over with the expectation of seeing the former army doctor. He was more disappointed than he could possibly say when it was only the day nurse coming to check on him.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" She busied herself with changing his saline drip and taking some readings from the machines next to the bed. "We're going to take the tube out this morning. It'll be a bit uncomfortable, but the doctor thinks it would be best."

 _Half an hour later…_

Sherlock would take a bullet wound over having a chest tube pulled out. The pain that little piece of plastic produced was unlike anything that he'd ever felt. And if he never felt it again at any point in his life…he would be fine with that. The doctor had used a local anesthetic and then stitched the two-inch incision closed. The nurse, from Suffolk originally, and in the process of ending an unhappy relationship if her hair was anything to go by, changed the bandage on his arm while he watched.

"There now…that should feel a lot better." She turned a false smile in his direction. Personally, he thought she was trying too hard. If she was unhappy, she should simply stay home and avoid other people all together.

 _Small talk. Why is it that everyone feels the need to fill these silences? Can't they just do their job and leave?_ Sherlock thought with irritation.

"Where's John?" he quickly bypassed her comment with a question of his own.

"Oh, Dr. Watson hasn't been here all morning."

Sherlock shifted as she drew a vial of blood. "All morning?"

"Yeah. I haven't seen Dr. Watson since last night." She shrugged and left.

Sherlock couldn't turn the morphine pump down fast enough. He needed his brain at peak performance and morphine was not good for working. Where had John gone? Why would he leave? Had something happened with Mary? His coat was draped over the back of the white chair, ignoring the pull of the needles that were taped to the back of his hand; he shifted until he could reach his Belstaff. Inside the inner pocket was his phone.

He dialed John's number. A ringing just inside his door caught his attention and Sherlock rolled his eyes. The walls of this institution really did need to be thicker. He could hear everything going on the rooms near his. And frankly he didn't want to listen to the woman next-door cry anymore. He blew out an irritate breath and dialed again after John's cell went to voicemail. The second time he dialed he heard the phone ringing again…

 _John's phone._ Sherlock struggled up and out of the bed. His legs nearly collapsed beneath him as he tried to stand. There was a fiery burst of pain from his feet and the extremely unpleasant sensation in his arm where the stitches pulled. He hadn't even managed to get off the bed when his injuries reminded him that he was in the hospital for a reason.

Mycroft pushed the door open and immediately frowned when he saw his brother half in and half out of the bed. "Should you really be doing that?"

Sherlock glared at him. It would figure that his rubbish older brother would show up to see him in his current vulnerable position. "If you're not here to help me, you can leave."

"Perhaps if I knew what the objective was, I could offer assistance?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side. He'd done that since Sherlock was little, it was his way of disapproving of his little brother without saying it out loud.

"By the door."

Mycroft's gaze dropped to his feet. It only took a moment for him to see the phone lying next to the floorboard. He picked it up and stepped into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. "I assume _this_ is what you were attempting acquire?"

"Well I certainly wasn't coming to open the door for you." He shot back. Sherlock was lashing out and it was a bit irrational, but he didn't care at the moment. Something must have happened to John. He settled back into the bed and held his hand out. Mycroft crossed to the chair and then dropped the phone into his palm.

Sherlock immediately thumbed the button and the phone flared to life. There were two missed calls and a text message. The missed calls were from Sherlock…but the missed text? That was from Mary and she obviously, judging from the message, hadn't seen John all night.

"Something's happened." Sherlock whispered. His heart started hammering in his chest and the monitor next to the bed alerted his older brother to the increased activity of the organ.

"I assume this involves John Watson?"

Sherlock's pale eyes flickered up. "Obviously." He bit out angrily. "Did your people find Moran?"

Mycroft shook his head. He didn't look any happier about revealing the failure than Sherlock was at hearing it. "So the man Moriarty hired to kill John Watson is here in London and now John is missing." Sherlock ground out and he was, again, struggling up out of the bed. "Fairly certain there's a connection there."

For once Mycroft did not do the rational thing. He did not force his little brother back into the hospital bed and inject him with a sedative. Sherlock would never forgive him if John died. And he had to agree that the balance of probability suggested that James Moran had indeed taken the doctor.

"What can I do?" he was already pulling his phone from his suit jacket pocket. Mycroft's blue eyes were sincere as he offered without reservation the help that Sherlock so desperately needed.

"Call Lestrade. And get me the hell out of here." The determination in his words belied the physical appearance of his transport.

"The first is easy. The second? Not in your best interest, brother mine." Mycroft looked a bit uncomfortable denying Sherlock his second request.

"Either _you_ get me out of here. Or I'll sign myself out against medical advice. Either way, I am going to find my friend." He was deadly serious and the chill emanating from his pale eyes froze any argument Mycroft was about to make. "At least this way, you get to keep an eye on me."

His brother raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You hate that I do that."

"Yes, I do. But I can't help John if I bleed out somewhere because I've ripped my stitches or my lung collapses again. I might stubborn, but I'm not stupid." Sherlock watched as his honestly landed heavily on his brother. "Or suicidal…"

"I was informed by the staff that they only just removed your chest tube less than an hour ago. Do you really think this is the best idea?"

Sherlock groaned. "Probably not. But if we wrap my chest tightly, it should stabilize the broken ribs and offer support for the healing lung. I'm not going to running across rooftops, but I'll live." His brother's eyes narrowed. "I will be careful." He offered, trying to placate the concern still radiating off Mycroft. "And I won't ditch Lestrade. Promise."

Mycroft sighed. "This is not a good idea. Mummy won't be pleased."

'Then I suggest that we don't tell her." Sherlock answered immediately. "What is it you always say? Sometimes ignorance is a kindness."

"When have I ever said that?" The elder Holmes asked with a sneer.

"Two years ago, when you suggested that we keep John out of the Lazarus plan." Sherlock's baritone was flat and slightly angry as he glared up at his brother. He held out his hand, Mycroft pressed his lips together and reached out to help his younger brother to his unsteady feet.

221B 221B

The world was a spinning at a dizzying speed that made John want to vomit. His head was throbbing and he was soaking wet. He shifted and water splashed around him immediately alerting him to the change in his location. That brought him into awareness and he struggled to stand up. The last thing he remembered was talking to Mary on the phone outside of Sherlock's room. _Oh God…Sherlock…this has to be to get to Sherlock._ Because there was no better way to bring the consulting detective running that if John was used as bait.

 _Dammit…_

He couldn't see a damn thing, but he was obviously somewhere with standing water. His right leg was chained to the bottom of… _wherever the hell I am_. He stood up, but John wasn't able to move more than a foot in any direction.

He patted down his jacket in the vain hope that his mobile phone would still be there. _It wasn't._

"Help!" he called out. His plea reverberated through the area, but there was no answer. "Can anyone hear me?!" John leaned back against the wall, it was stone, he noticed. He hated the darkness, always had. Ever since his last mission in Afghanistan, the one that had resulted in his being invalided home…with a bullet in his shoulder and his health irretrievably damaged. "Please God…don't let me die." He muttered softly.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're still interested in the story. It would be greatly appreciated. Thank you._


	10. The Missing Doctor

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. Because the last chapter was a bit of nasty little cliffy...here you go.

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 10**

 _The Missing Doctor_

John's teeth were chattering as he struggled to keep his body temperature from dropping to dangerous levels. His hands were numb and he'd taken to shoving them beneath his armpits to try and warm them up a bit. The entire place had the smell of disuse and mold. Wherever he was, John was certain that no one had been here in years. Which meant that the chances of someone _happening_ across him, weren't all that good. Okay, let's face it…they were absolute rubbish!

The water had the distinct chill of the season and the doctor knew that he didn't have a lot of time before he either slipped into hypothermia or became too tired to keep his head above the waterline…and drowned. Neither of which were great ways to die. _If there is a 'great' way to die._

He shook his head in resignation at his current situation. Being friends with the world's only consulting detective came with some fine print that John hadn't been aware of. Not that he would trade his adventures with Sherlock for anything, but sometimes he wished that the criminal world would come up with a better way to summon the consulting detective than using John as bait. He had no doubt that that was exactly what his role was in this _mess_.

Bait…

The passage of time was impossible to determine since there was no light filtering into the watery cell. John shoved his hand through his hair and then allowed it to fall back to the relative warmth of his body.

 _Five minutes…I got to be happy for five minutes. That figures._ He thought with a pang of anger. What had he ever done to deserve the crummy life he'd been granted? The only good things were Mary, Sherlock, and Lestrade…okay; there was also Mrs. Hudson and Molly. _Although Molly kept Sherlock's fake suicide a secret, so I owe her a conversation too._

He redirected his thoughts toward his current situation and the possibility of finding a way out. The biggest issue facing John was the lack of any discernable light source. He couldn't even see his hand in front of his face, which meant that seeing the location of an exit, if one existed, was out of the question. _Not to mention the tiny detail that my leg is iron-cuffed to the floor somehow._ He squatted down as low as he could and broke the water, reaching down to touch the infernal contraption…it was, as he'd feared, solid iron. _So, not pulling my way free._ He shook his leg and felt the weight of the cuff shift up and down his leg, but only a little…it was quite tight.

John straightened up and sighed. Something was pulling at his senses and he allowed his gaze to wander through the darkness. A sudden blinding light had him clenching his eyelids shut as a sharp pain burst through his head. "Jesus…" he didn't finish the explicative, instead raising his watery eyes toward the source of his visual pain. John blinked several times before his eyes finally focused on the floodlight above him and what he saw there had him biting his tongue to keep from spouting every dirty word he'd ever learned in the military.

"Ah, doctor Watson. Glad to see you haven't drowned." A disembodied voice flooded the cell and as John's eyes adjusted he looked around.

Dread clenched his gut when he realized that he was inside of a very small, circular room, with extremely high walls and no view of the outside. _Almost like a well…_

"Where the hell am I?" He bit out through clenched teeth. He would not show weakness to the bastard that was apparently watching him from a camera. He knew he'd been around Sherlock for too long considering it only took one word for him to determine that the man was indeed _watching_ him suffer.

"Oh, I should tell you, there is no audio on your end, unless I turn in on. That way when I send this link to Sherlock Holmes, he can't speak to you…or you to him."

 _Bait…wonderful._ John had been right. _Sometimes I would very much like to be wrong._ He stared up at the light, refusing to blink as he did so. John slowly lifted his hands out the water and flipped off the camera. It was the only means of communication left to him, so he used it.

"Very mature, doctor." The tone in the voice was irritated now.

John smiled, quite pleased with himself. At least he could still irritate the bastard, so not a complete loss. "If you want more complex conversation, turn on my audio."

"It's on."

"Where am I?"

There was a slight pause, then a clipped answer. "England. Next?"

John pulled in a heavy breath as he bit back the sarcastic remark that immediately came to mind. "This is about Sherlock?" It wouldn't do him any good to further incense the man that currently held John's life in his hands.

"Of course it's about Sherlock. I owe him."

"Owe him? Why?"

A sinister laugh crackled through the speakers. "Sherlock Holmes made the mistake of killing a very good friend of mine. So I am simply returning the favour."

John shook his head. "Whom, is he supposed to have killed?" Over their years together, John was not aware of a single person that Sherlock had actually _killed_. While the same thing could not be said for John himself, he _had_ killed men. In fact he had killed on their very first case together. But the consulting detective had never actually pulled the trigger, not himself…slowly it dawned on John that he hadn' t been with Sherlock over the last two years. It was entirely possible that the consulting detective _had_ killed someone in order to survive. In which case, John was certain that the bastard had deserved to die.

"Jim Moriarty." The faceless voice responded after a brief pause. His voice had dropped to barely above a whisper and there was an edge of barely restrained anger threading through it.

"Sherlock did not shoot James Moriarty. Autopsy ruled it a self-inflicted gunshot wound." There was no hesitation in John's defense of his friend. He'd been there for the post-mortem of the criminal genius and there had been no indication that the man's death had been anything but a suicide. Not even Scotland Yard had questioned whether or not the insane psychopath had put a bullet through his own brain.

There was a click and suddenly John was plunged back into darkness. "Bloody bastard! You could at least leave the lights on!" He called out angrily.

22B 221B

Sherlock was leaning heavily against Lestrade as they exited the hospital. He had had to argue, vehemently, with the doctor assigned to him in order to walk out of the place. The insufferable man had tried to demand that Sherlock be wheeled out in a chair. He knew that it was by far the easiest solution, but he refused to be seen as any weaker than he already appeared. His mind was darting all over the place. The absence of John was playing havoc with Sherlock's ability to focus his thoughts.

He was desperately running through every bit of data he could wrap his mind around and he was coming up woefully short. It was as though John had been plucked from the whole of London.

Getting Mycroft's help had been easier than he'd anticipated. It had actually been far more difficult to convince Lestrade to go along with his discharge plan. Sherlock's eyes whipped back and forth as he searched for the car. "Giles, where's the car?"

"Jesus Sherlock, it's _Greg_. And the car is over there." The irritation in the detective's voice made Sherlock smile in-spite of the awful situation they now found themselves in. He watched as the DI stomped off toward the BMW. Sherlock started the slow and painful process of following the man without any support. His steps were stilted and he cringed every time he was forced to _breathe_. If God did exist, he must have the worst sense of humor in the entire universe.

Because forcing humans to endure the agony of an autonomic action while injured was simply cruel. If Sherlock had designed the body he would have foregone the whole breathing thing…and food… _and sleep._ He grunted when his toe caught on the edge of the walk and he stumbled.

Just when he thought he might actually end up on the ground, Lestrade gently grabbed his elbow. He didn't say anything, simply helped Sherlock the rest of the way to the waiting car.

The drive back to Baker Street was not comfortable. Not in the least and the consulting detective hated the fact that he couldn't hide the occasional twitch of pain that reflected on his face. They pulled into the open parking area just outside the front door and Sherlock glanced up at the flat he loved so much. He was reminded that he now lived there alone and the place would never again feel like home…not without John. That put a bit of a damper on his return to London and definitely on his return to 221B.

Sherlock's phone started to buzz. He pulled it out and frowned when he saw a new video message had been sent. His gaze flickered to Lestrade and then he swallowed the sudden dryness that closed his throat off.

The detective looked over at the injured man for a moment and then dropped his gaze to the buzzing phone. "Are you planning on answering that?"

The pain-dulled pale eyes shifted up and he blinked several times, he was _afraid_ of what this message might mean. His hands were shaking as he swiped the button on the home screen and the message instantly opened. Sherlock had to look twice. The screen lit up with an infrared image of John. And this wasn't a recorded video; it was from a live feed. From the way the doctor was shifting it was obvious that he was in complete darkness. The vacant look on his face instantly told Sherlock that the former army doctor wasn't focusing on anything in particular.

He didn't appear to be injured, which did little to alleviate the indignant anger and mounting concern that was now flooding through the consulting detective. "John…" he breathed out softly. The doctor was standing in roughly 2-feet of water and he didn't seem to be moving very much. _Probably secured somehow._

"He can't hear you, Sherlock." A voice that Sherlock couldn't delete, even if he wanted to, crackled out of the small speaker on the phone. His eyelids dropped closed as the futility of their current situation became glaringly clear.

"Moran, I presume?" Lestrade's gaze shifted between the phone and Sherlock's reaction to the voice on the phone.

"You know who it is?" the detective wondered aloud.

The dark-haired man nodded curtly. "Not very sporting to refuse to give me _your_ name in all those months I spent in your company."

"It was a clever little rouse, wasn't it? I honestly thought you'd figure it out. James went on and on about your brilliantly deductive mind. It's probably a good thing that he didn't survive to see you fall so far." There was a humorless chuckle on the other end of the line.

John had leaned down into the water, like he was grabbing at his feet. _Definitely secured._ Sherlock's stomach clenched as his anxiety levels rose. "You don't need John. You can find me at Baker Street, I'll be waiting."

Lestrade started to speak, but a cold glare from the injured man stopped whatever he'd been about to say.

"No, and eye for an eye, Sherlock. You killed my friend…now you're going to watch as I kill yours." Suddenly there was water pouring into John's cell. The doctor's eyes flashed up and he yelled something, but Sherlock couldn't make out the words. His heart was now hammering, painfully; inside his chest…he appeared to have lost complete control of his bleeding transport.

 _A well, he's in a bloody well._ Sherlock couldn't believe that he'd missed that. The room was circular and the standing water in the bottom should have immediately tipped him off about the location. But his emotional connection to John was coloring his ability to assess the situation clearly.

The shock, anger, and fear that was now weaving its' way through him was slamming the doors on his ability to think. John was going to die…and Sherlock was gong to be forced to watch as the assassin carried out the last order of the consulting criminal. If a person had been able to reach into his mind and pull out his worst fear, this would have been it. Watching as John died in front of him with no way to save him.

 _Think…you have to think. He wouldn't be showing you this if without a reason; he must be playing at some sort of game._ "Moriarty would never have ordered John's death without giving me a way to save him." He pulled in a ragged breath and continued. "You're showing me this for a reason." He watched as the water started to rise and John's expression shifted to one of panic.

"Tell you what Sherlock…I'll let say one thing to him. Just one. So consider your words carefully."

There was a click and then a buzz and suddenly Sherlock could hear the water pouring into John's watery cell. There were so many things that he wanted to say, but only one thing that John needed to hear.

"John, I will find you."

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're still interested in the story. It's a bit short, but I did leave you with a nasty little cliffhanger…so this should help…a bit._


	11. Save John Watson

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!**

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 11**

 _Save John Watson_

Sherlock watched as the drenched man's terrified gaze flitted around the opaque blackness of his watery prison. There was another click and the call disconnected leaving Sherlock and Lestrade staring at his mobile phone in shocked silence. His attention shifted for a moment as he attempted to replay every detail of the video inside his mind. But the results were not helpful, not in the least.

"There wasn't a clue…" Sherlock muttered softly, his hand shakily swiping through his dark hair. There had to be _something_ that he was missing…there had to be a clue…didn't there? He could not find John without one and he _had_ to find John Watson. Nothing else was acceptable.

The detective inspector looked over at him sharply. "What?" Lestrade's brown eyes were somewhere between worried and skeptical as he stared at the injured man.

Pale, emotion-filled eyes lifted to meet his gaze. "There wasn't a clue. There was no clue." Sherlock swallowed. "I don't know how to find John." His eyes dropped back to the dark phone lying uselessly in his lap. He let his eyelids fall closed for a moment before the shaking in his hands drew his gaze back down and his eyes locked on the phone. He had to pull it together. Somewhere out there, John was counting on him and he refused to let the doctor down twice in the same lifetime. The well…there had to be something about the water.

For Sherlock's entire life water had bothered him and he'd never quite understood why. It wasn't as though he'd nearly drowned as a child or anything of that nature. He had simply shoved the ridiculous fear down and ignored it. But now…he would lose John…to the water if he didn't figure out this fear.

Failure wasn't something that Sherlock was good at. He'd never had much practice. He didn't like having unsolved cases or information that he couldn't quantify into results. He was pulled from his thoughts when the man next to him finally asked a question. "Couldn't there be something you missed?"

Lestrade was trying to be helpful, but all he was doing was filling the silence, and Sherlock knew it.

"Me? I don't _miss_ things, Gavin. There was nothing. The place was filling with water and John is stuck, trapped, cuffed to the floor somehow and if I can't find him he's going to drown…and I can't let that happen." The dark-haired man bit out the angry response without even glancing over at the detective inspector. Instead he slowly started climbing out of the car, his intention of entering the flat was very clear.

"Sherlock, I only meant that you've been through hell the last few days…" Lestrade reconsidered that comment and immediately amended it. "…years, actually. And you might not see everything as clearly as you normally do. Let us help you." He paused then continued evenly. "Let us help _John_."

The consulting detective froze and then sank back into the buttery-soft leather seat. He considered Lestrade's words, then finally nodded. "Call Mycroft. I need to review the video and determine if you are, in fact, right." With that he heaved his pained body up out of the car and cautiously made his way toward the door of 221B. When the other man didn't immediately follow him, he glanced back. "You coming?"

221B 221B

The water continued to pour in, slowly filling the empty spaces of the well. It had been down around John's thighs when he'd initially regained consciousness, now the water just under his elbows. His time was running out. He'd heard the only thing Sherlock had been allowed to say.

"I will find you, John." He'd heard the words and he knew that the detective would move heaven and earth to find him. But he had nothing to go on. This wasn't like the time that John had been taken by the Chinese smugglers. Sherlock had had several clues as to the whereabouts of the gang and he'd shown up just in time to save John and his tragically doomed date, Sarah.

This time there was nothing. Moran hadn't given away anything over the call and there was nothing inside the well that would alert Sherlock as to his location. At least nothing that John could see, although to be fair, John couldn't see much of anything at the moment. He had been plunged back into the darkness and the light nestled near the camera had never lit up again.

The gushing sound of the water had lessened a bit, but that was only because it no longer had as far to fall. He was also bloody freezing. It couldn't be over forty degrees outside, which meant that the water was not much above freezing. He'd been in the well for approximately two hours. John didn't know for sure, but that was his guess. Time tended to lose all meaning when one was waiting to drown in the pitch black of a deep well.

His body had stopped shivering ten minutes ago and he there was a creeping numbness climbing up his legs and making it's way into his upper body. John ground his teeth together to stop the chattering. His lower body might have accepted their doomed fate, but his teeth were still holding out hope that Sherlock would find them.

And what about Mary? She would never even know what happened to him. Just that he went to see Sherlock and then he'd never come home. John couldn't imagine his socially inept friend explaining to her what had happened to the doctor. Sherlock wouldn't even know where to start with those types of complex emotions…he was terrible with even the simplest emotions.

John needed to come up with a plan before his brain quite working all together. What would Sherlock do? _He bloody well wouldn't have gotten himself kidnapped in the first place._ John's brain shot back without being at all helpful. _Stop. Think. How can I get a message to Sherlock and Lestrade?_ The doctor had no doubt that the consulting detective would have reached out to the DI for help. Mostly because he would have had to in order to get out of the hospital.

Oh yes, he knew that the youngest Holmes would no longer be a resident of Barts hospital. As soon as he would have been able, Sherlock would certainly called Mycroft and the eldest Holmes would have had him sprung from the _joint_ before the ink had dried on the AMA. John knew this, because that is what he would have done, had their positions been reversed. And all of this happened before the injured detective knew a mad psychopath was drowning John. Now? He would be surprised if Sherlock wasn't sitting in 221B scouring every detail of the short video message.

But John couldn't expect Sherlock Holmes to do everything. So what could he do to save himself? Well, first he needed to get a message to the consulting detective about his location. Problem…John didn't know his location. So how could he trick Moran into revealing something useful?

 _He got irrational when we talked about Moriarty. So there is a possibility that I can piss him off enough to reveal something. Okay, so how do I do that?_ Sherlock would have been able to do it without even trying... John's gaze flickered around the darkness as he considered his extremely limited options. A splashing caught his attention and had him pressing his back further against the hard cold stone. He wasn't alone. Something was swimming in the water. The high-pitch squeaking gave away the species, rats. John was sharing his watery grave with the plague-carrying vermin that had wiped out most of Europe. _Wonderful_.

 _Back to the task at hand…how do I get a message to Sherlock?_ At times like these John wished that he had the lightning fast brain of his friend. He was positive that Sherlock would be able to figure this out without even breaking a sweat. He was a bit surprised at the fact that there was no twinge of anger as he thought of the lying detective that had deceived him for the past two years. There wasn't even a hint of the rage that had been there earlier.

He lost his time to consider his own fate when the light flared to life again. Which could only mean that Moran getting ready to send another message to Sherlock. This might be his only chance. John ignored the numbness that was now constant from his naval down. The water had risen to the point where he was more than a bit concerned that he would indeed drown before anyone found him.

The deluge had lessened, but it hadn't all together stopped. John pulled uselessly at his cuffed leg. He might stand a chance if he could figure out how to get his ankle out of the iron shackle. _Focus on the camera, John. Get a message to Sherlock._ He shifted his gaze toward the bright light and squinted as his eyes adjusted. He glanced around quickly, looking for anything that might be useful to him. John bit his lower lip in disgust as he watched several rats swim along the far wall.

 _Hang on…if there are rats in here, there must be a way in and that means there is a way out._ He watched as the rats maneuvered through the cold dark water toward what looked to be a small pipe. The water was trickling out of it. John cast his eyes around the small area and saw several more pipes, all dripping water slowly. _So that's how he's getting the water in._ The pipes were flush with the stonewall, so that meant no climbing, but that also meant that this was probably a run off area for some farmer's field.

"Getting a bit deep, isn't it Dr. Watson?" Moran's distinct voice disrupted the silence. John heard the gears whine in the camera as it adjusted.

John stayed silent. He wasn't going to give this bastard the satisfaction of hearing him beg. The doctor also had no idea if Sherlock was watching this and that wouldn't do anything to help the consulting detective focus. The man was already injured and probably higher than a kite on pain meds. And that meant that John needed him to focus as much as was possible under the circumstances.

"You're a bit silent, John." Moran taunted.

The doctor's cheek twitched as he bit back a nasty response. _Not going to help you, you bastard._ He thought instead.

"Huh…well that just won't do." Moran said. There was a slight tightening to his voice that warned John that something bad was coming.

Suddenly his entire body lit up as an electric current passed through the water. Pain exploded in every nerve ending and it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. His fingers curled into fists and he threw his head backwards accidently smashing it into the stone. Sparks burst inside his head as his entire body shook with painful wracking muscle contractions. His mind told him it wasn't enough to kill him, just enough to hurt like bloody hell.

He'd been on the receiving end of a bullet, just outside of hitting and destroying the shoulder joint…but it had not felt like this. His cry of shock was caught in his throat and he screamed silently into the cold air as the lights again went out, leaving him in utter darkness.

221B 221B

Sherlock stared at the small white pain pills sitting precariously on the palm of his trembling hand. He wanted to take them so badly it was nearly blinding his reasoning. His body was screaming at him to take them. Do something, anything to take the edge off the lancing agony that was threatening to undo him. His thin fingers shook with the effort of simply holding his hand up. He was a mess, he was in hell, and he knew it, but none of that mattered, not now…not with John's life hanging in the balance. Sherlock simply could not afford to slip off into the painless multi-faceted rooms of his mind.

"Those would do you more good if you were to actually swallow them." Mycroft's thinly veiled criticism broke his stalemate with the pain meds. Sherlock's multi-hued gaze lifted to meet the disapproving look of his older brother. He dropped the pills onto the table next to his chair.

Mycroft had schooled his expression into one of haughty annoyance. It was a side of his older brother that Sherlock had seen far too often growing up. He did not, however, need to see now.

"They won't let me think. Won't let me work." He responded tightly, then swung his gaze away and focused on the unlit fireplace. "I _need_ to think." He muttered softly. Sherlock didn't have the energy to fight the pain _and_ Mycroft, not at this moment. His transport was failing; he could feel it slipping away.

Mycroft's face softened instantly when his jibe didn't get the expected response from his younger brother. His blue eyes flickered over to Lestrade, who was seated on the couch silently drinking a cup of tea. John's chair had been, wisely, left empty. "So, have you worked it out?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted to meet Mycroft's guarded gaze. This wasn't a game. This was John's life, so there was no pretense when he shook his head. He wasn't hiding something that his older brother would need to decode for the sake of his being _clever_. He simply acknowledged that he had _not_ figured out the tortuous game that Moran was making him play.

"Let me see." Mycroft held his hand out, waiting patiently for his brother to allow him to help. Sherlock stared at it for a moment before dropping his phone into his brother's opened palm. He studied the elder Holmes's reaction as he watched the video message. There was a slight tightening of Mycroft's cheek muscle, but that was the only visible reaction as the message finish and the screen went dark. He lifted his eyes to the hopeful gaze of his little brother.

"Well?" Sherlock asked in clipped tone.

"There's nothing. It's a well."

A look of disappointment ghosted across Sherlock's sharp features as he reached out to take the phone back. "I am aware it's a well. I was hoping you could provide new information."

The man in the three-piece suit sighed and shook his head. "I truly wish that I could, Sherlock. There is simply nothing to go on."

"Well then you're no help at all." He settled back into the chair and returned to staring. This time his eyes were resting on the empty chair with the union jack pillow.

Under normal circumstances the inability of his brother to help him would have led to an argument about the ineffectiveness of bureaucrats in expensive suits, but not this time. This time the stakes were too high and the game too dangerous for petty arguments. Sherlock had learned a lot while he'd been away; this had been one of the more difficult lessons. He actually, God help him, _liked_ his brother. Not that he would ever be telling Mycroft that.

Sudden movement alerted Sherlock and he looked over as Lestrade hauled himself up off the couch and made his way to the kitchen with his empty teacup.

He turned abnormally honest eyes toward the man now standing in front of him. "Mycroft, how do I find John?"

"Wait for Moran to make contact again and then try to get some shred of information that give you a place to start." He sighed and then sank down onto the chair that was generally reserved for clients.

"Wait? And what if John dies while I'm sitting around being utterly useless?" Sherlock managed to force past the denial on his lips. "He's in danger because of me. If I hadn't come back, none of this would have happened. He'd still have a life…with Mary." It was far more than he'd intended to say, but the words were just flowing out him like…water.

That thought brought images of the doctor being slowly engulfed and he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes in an effort to wipe away the image. "I did this to him." Sherlock muttered softly.

At some point Lestrade had returned to the living room. He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft when the elder Holmes remained shamefully mute as Sherlock emotionally eviscerated himself. "You did not do this, Sherlock. Moriarty started this _thing,_ three years ago when he sent the cabbie after you. You are not the reason this is happening; he is."

Sherlock finally lifted his eyes to meet Lestrade's concerned expression. He didn't smile or nod in agreement, he simply said. "Thanks, Greg."

It was a testament to how much Sherlock was currently _not_ noticing _anything_ that he missed the shocked tilt of the detective inspector's head at the correct use of his first name.

Mrs. Hudson bustled through the door with an armload of items for the kitchen. She stopped when she noticed Sherlock sitting quietly and the two men staring down at him. "Oh good gracious, Sherlock. You look terrible." Her face fell even more when she noticed the absence of John. "So you haven't fixed things yet?" Underneath the worried expression was a hint of anger. Mrs. Hudson still hadn't fully forgiven him for making her think he was dead as well. She was also still harboring some well-placed anger at the doctor for cutting her out of his life after Sherlock's _death._ And she certainly didn't realize that her question was jabbing at the heart of the consulting detective.

Instead of snapping back at her, as he would normally have done, he shook his head and slowly climbed to his feet. A part of him was fairly certain that he'd earned the agony that made even breathing difficult. He shuffled through the people cluttering his living room and made his way toward the toilet. His stomach was turning angrily and he wasn't sure he was going to keep the terrible excuse for a meal, that the hospital had forced him to eat, down.

A sudden knocking at the door downstairs stopped him. He turned; looking back at the three people watching him with identical worried expressions. "I can't exactly navigate the stairs."

Mycroft straightened his shoulders. He was most certainly not answering the door, like some lowly servant or something. Lestrade looked over at Mrs. Hudson, she narrowed her eyes and then shook her head as she made her way out of the room and down the stairs. She was muttering something that Sherlock couldn't quite make out, but it sounded like " _Someday they're going to realize I'm not their house keeper…"_

Sherlock was just about to shut the door when he heard Mary's voice. "I think someone's got John." At her words, he immediately turned back toward the living room. He hadn't even made it out of the hallway before she raced into the room, holding her mobile phone like it might bite her.

His brain instantly took in all the details surrounding the small blonde woman. Considering that she must have some sort of text about John, she was surprisingly calm. Her green gaze flashed between the people in the room and when they landed on Sherlock she moved quickly to his side, holding up the phone.

 _Save souls now! John or James Watson? Saint or Sinner? Verulanium down in catacombs._

The detective stared at her in wonder. There was far more to this woman than he'd initially thought. John really had gotten himself a good one. Sherlock ignored that deduction. He needed to focus on what was in front of him and it was a clue. The first one he'd gotten since John had been taken.

"I thought it was spam. Like Bible verse, but it's not." She said as she held the phone and he read. Mycroft and Lestrade, wisely, stayed silent as they read the words that might save the doctor. "It's a skip code." Mary finished, further shocking Sherlock.

His gaze shifted to her again for a moment before returned to the phrase. "Save John Watson. Saint Verulanium catacombs." His mind sharpened in that moment and he recalled that Saint Albans Cathedral had been originally named in Latin, Verulanium and there were catacombs beneath it. Sherlock was moving before he'd even finished the thought. All pain was shoved down in light of the new information. He stumbled toward his coat, shrugging out of the dressing robe and pulling the heavy Belstaff over his thin shoulders.

Mycroft frowned. "And where do you think you're going?"

"To save John." Sherlock said as he grabbed his scarf and tied it around his neck. His ribs twinged painfully, but he ignored it as he made his way toward the door. He glanced back at Mary and Lestrade. "Coming?"

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're still interested in the story._


	12. The Catacombs

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**APOLOGIES for the cliffhanger…(s)…but the next chapter has the rescue, I promise…I'll try and post again before next Saturday…just me know what you think of the story.**

Lots of internal angst in this one...just so you know.

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 12**

 _The Catacombs_

Sherlock watched the countryside fly by as Lestrade's car flew down the narrows two-lane road. A helicopter had been unavailable, even with Mycroft's connections due to the storm that now raged around them. The rain pelted the front windshield like small watery pebbles trying to break through the glass, the wipers were struggling to keep up. _Water…why is it always the water?_ He considered silently. The winds whipped around the heavy German-made car stirring up debris and making the conditions more hazardous. The weather was almost a perfect reflection of the turmoil wrecking Sherlock from the inside out.

Mary was seated in the backseat. She hadn't said much of anything since they'd left Baker Street. Which was just as well. The consulting detective replayed everything that they had learned over and over inside his head. He was tormented by visions of the water that had been pouring into John's prison. If his calculations were right, and he was rarely wrong, then John may already be _underwater_. That was a distractingly horrific thought and Sherlock found himself trying to force the image from his mind, with little success.

He shook his head and glanced down where his trembling hands rested in his lap. The tremors were getting significantly worse. Sherlock sighed at the blatant debilitation of his transport and allowed his head rest against the leather seat. Suddenly there was a light pressure resting on his shoulder. He didn't turn and look at the woman behind him, but he did tilt his head in acknowledgement of her existence inside the car.

"We're going to find him." Mary's words were exactly what he _wanted_ to hear, which meant that he couldn't believe them. The evidence didn't support that conclusion. Their only hope was if Moran had cut the water for some reason, giving them more time. Instead of denying her supportive words and gesture, he remained silent.

"We're about an hour out." Lestrade couldn't stand the oppressive silence inside the car. The pounding rain shifted into hail and the detective inspector swore softly. They needed to catch a break at some point. Without one this was going to be a recovery instead of a rescue. And Greg was certain that he did not want to see what that would do to the injured man seated next to him.

Sherlock's phone buzzed from inside his pocket. His eyebrows drew together in apprehension and he slowly pulled the small device from the inside of the Belstaff. It was another video message, which meant that it was an update on John's current condition. Or it was the tragic conclusion of their, Sherlock gulped down the sickening dread that threatened to blind him to everything else… _game_.

Mary leaned over the seat, her hands now resting on both of Sherlock's narrow shoulders. "Is it from Moran?" There was a slight shake to her normally even voice. Sherlock nodded.

He swiped his shaking finger across the button and the message popped up. Once again it focused on John inside the well. The water had risen to just under his armpits and he seemed to be staring at something across from him. John frowned at whatever must have been said, since it was said only to him and then his entire body arched violently and he slammed his head backwards, racking it against the stonewall.

 _Oh my God…he's being electrocuted._ Sherlock's deduction sent a shiver of abject fear coursing through him. He had done more than enough experiments concerning the intense contractions of large muscle groups, when exposed to electrical current, to know exactly what he was being forced to witness. For all his understanding of science, he had never actually seen what electrical current could do to a living person…and he had _never_ wanted to see what it could do to John Watson.

"Jesus…" Lestrade breathed out in shock. His eyes had shifted over when he heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.

"He's running out of time, Sherlock." Mary observed needlessly. They all knew what they were looking at...John's final fight if they were unsuccessful.

A gust of wind pushed the car sideways and Lestrade grabbed the wheel with both hands as he struggled to correct it.

"Bloody hell." He swore when a second gust hit the car and suddenly they were spinning as the tires lost contact with the pavement. Greg again corrected the sliding car and slowed to a more manageable speed, they were not going to help John if they died in a fiery car crash.

Mary had pressed her small frame into the back of the seat, her hands pinching at the leather in a vice-like grip. Her knuckles were white and a silent 'oh' was frozen on her lips.

The consulting detective barely noticed anything happening outside of the video.

After what felt like hours, John's body slumped and he sank beneath the water. "No, John!" Sherlock wasn't sure who had said it, was it him or was it Mary? The screen blacked out again and the phone dropped from his numb fingers. He looked over at Lestrade. He didn't need to say anything, the detective inspector slammed his foot down on the pedal and the car whined as it raced down the dark, rain-slicked road.

They weren't going to make it.

221 B 221B

John's awareness returned the instant he unconsciously inhaled the first mouthful of dirty water. He shot back up, barely breaking the surface before he was spitting out the rancid tasting liquid, his throat constricting instinctively as he did. He coughed up the remaining water and grappled with the slick rock-covered walls in an effort to steady his frantic reaction to almost drowning. His eyes darted around him and John nearly groaned when he realized he had been plunged back into the bleak darkness and the water was again raining down on him.

The doctor had no idea how much of what he'd just been subjected to, Sherlock had been forced to observe. But he had absolutely no doubt that his friend had been on the receiving end of that video message. And if the psychotic way Jim Moriarty had treated them in the past was any indicator, then balance of probability indicated that that video had cut out at a very inopportune moment.

There was a very good chance that Sherlock now thought he was dead…drowned in the middle of nowhere. _Bloody awesome._

And now the water was rushing in and it was going to make that tragic lie, a reality. John swallowed the lump of emotion that was caught in his throat. _No, I have to give him more time. He won't give up and I can't either._ _Think John…think._ He had a sudden epiphany. There was a way that he could give himself, and Sherlock, more time, but it wouldn't be pleasant. The water had risen to just over his shoulders; it wasn't like he had a lot of options. Not anymore.

"Alright then." John attempted to bolster his courage in the knowledge of what he was about to do. He hauled in a long deep breath and then pulled his foot up as far as he could before carefully untying his boot.

John's fingers were nearly numb by the time he managed to pull apart the heavy knots and slip his foot out of the shoe. _Another breath_ … _just do it, John…_ and then he slammed his ankle into the floor; he felt the pop and then the fiery wash of nearly unbearable pain; pain that almost destroyed his determination to perform the action again and again until the ankle was a weak tangle of nerves and broken bones.

He clutched at his mid-section as his stomach finally rebelled and he almost lost what little food he still had in his stomach. The momentary flash of both Sherlock and Mary reestablished his intentions and he bit his lip in an effort to control the pulsating bursts of blinding white-hot pain.

His blue eyes lifted up and he stared into the obscurity above him. John had never been a religious man. He didn't believe that there was a being that cared about him sitting in some cloud-castle waiting for him to 'come home', as his priest had once told him. But in that moment, he breathed out a plea to anything that might be listening. "Give me strength."

John ground his teeth together as he began pulling and pushing his battered ankle until he started to feel the iron shackle slip further and further down until, with a burst of nearly blinding pain, his ankle slid free. The shock of the excruciating agony had him dipping beneath the surface again, if only for a moment. He made the instinctual mistake of pushing off the stone floor with both feet and he couldn't stop the bellow of anguish as he burst above the surface of the water. His voice reverberating through the cylindrical _hell_ , and then pressing back in on him until it forced him to focus.

He had to keep swimming…treading water. Every movement of his broken ankle was torture. The shooting pain was more than flesh and blood could bear; but bear it he must. John had no choice. Twice more he slipped beneath the surface of the frigid water as his strength waned. He'd inhaled so much of the distrusting liquid that the doctor in him wondered if he would develop a respiratory infection as a result. Of course this was all assuming he actually lived.

There was no way for him to tell how deep the water was now. He couldn't reach the bottom, hadn't been able to for quite a while. It could be one feet or fifteen feet below him for all he knew.

" _John?"_ Sherlock's voice resounded inside his head like a canon.

John could not see anything, but the sound of his friend's baritone gave him strength he did not think he still had. "Sherlock?" He spluttered as water rushed into his open mouth. His arms were burning with exhaustion and his ankle was now a torment for which he no longer had the words.

" _You have to hang on, John. I am coming. Please don't drown before I find you."_ The plea in Sherlock's words had to be an extension of John's own fears. Because he'd never heard so much naked emotion from the self-proclaimed sociopath. The doctor was no longer sure if he was imagining things or if his friend was actually there?

Was this something that was happening inside his head? John could feel his grip on reality starting to slip as the paranoia and fear took hold of his heart and his head.

221B 221B

The car slid to a stop just outside of Saint Alban's. The golden glow of the light was barely visible through the stained glass as water pelted the cathedral. The wind ripped around him as Sherlock stepped onto unsteady feet and pulled the collar of his coat up. Within seconds his dark hair was plastered to his head and his body was shivering from the cold.

He ignored the sharp lancing pain in his chest as he began slowly making his way toward the large ornate door. Lestrade jogged up and settled in next to him at a brisk walk, his own hands were fisted into his jacket trying to keep the heavy rains from soaking him.

They didn't say anything as they slowly climbed the stone steps and the DI shoved the wooden door open. Sherlock gratefully stepped into the relative dryness of the main chamber. His pain-glazed eyes flickered up to the large cross hanging over a huge podium with candles burning on either side.

"Now where?" Lestrade asked. Mary stepped up next to the two men, her eyes shifting between them as she waited for their next move.

Sherlock pulled his lower lip between his teeth and shifted into his mind palace…

 _221B 221B_

 _He shuffled toward the large bookshelf on the opposite side of John's room. The consulting detective ignored the fact that the room was dark and lonely without his mind-version of the former army doctor. Ever since he'd learned of John's abduction, this place had not felt like home. Because there was no one here, no John, nothing of interest…at least not until now…inside this room Sherlock had stored all the maps of the cathedrals and churches in England._

 _Within these walls was the map to saving John._

" _He is probably already dead." Moriarty's words cut through Sherlock like a hot knife through butter. "You know that." The shorter consulting criminal strolled into the large room and allowed his gaze the wander around. "It's very…quaint in here. Just like John. Quaint. Ordinary. Useless."_

 _Sherlock had managed to ignore the consulting criminal until he called John 'ordinary and useless'. At those words his gaze had flashed up and hardened into steel. "You don't get to say that about John."_

 _Moriarty laughed. "Hit a nerve there, didn't I?" He inhaled slowly and then walked over to John's chair looking directly at Sherlock as he threw the union jack pillow onto the floor and sank down._

 _A muscle jumped in the consulting detective's cheek and he turned toward the shorter man. His pale eyes dropped to the pillow on the floor then flicked back up. "Pick it up." There was an edge to his voice that threatened at something darker if he was ignored._

 _Moriarty shrugged. "Make me." He watched as Sherlock shifted painfully. "You can't, can you. You're too broken." His dark eyes shifted up momentarily. "Out there…you're not strong enough, Sherlock."_

 _It took every ounce of iron-formed will that he had developed over his lifetime, but in a move that he should not have been capable of, Sherlock sprang forward and knocked Moriarty over the back of the chair. The two men collided and pain exploded through Sherlock as he pressed his forearm against Jim's neck._

 _The curly-haired, pale, and injured man was shaking with rage as he choked the consulting criminal. "Get out." Flecks of spittle landed on Jim's face as Sherlock lost control of his more base instincts. Rage... He would save John…even if it meant dying in the process._

" _Sherlock…I don't have much time…" John's resolute words reverberated through his mind palace and suddenly Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, alone. Moriarty was gone._

 _His grey-green eyes flashed around the room seeking the owner of the voice; finding nothing but emptiness. He shoved the useless fear down and struggled up to his knees. The searing pain nearly sending him back to the floor, but John's words echoed over and over through his head. "I don't have much time…"_

 _On the floor next to him was the book he'd been pulling out when Moriarty had interrupted him. Sherlock reached out and slowly pulled the thick leather-bound volume toward him. Without thinking he immediately turned to the page that contained the maps of the catacombs beneath St. Albans._

221B 221B

Sherlock came back to himself inside the cathedral, his hands shaking violently, and his legs trembling from the effort of simply staying upright. He nodded toward the cross and started moving without saying anything to Lestrade or Mary.

They slipped behind the enormous crucifix and Sherlock made slow painful progress down the hidden stone steps. He did not speak. He couldn't, at this time he needed all his concentration to keep from stumbling and ensuring that Moriarty's words were realized…a dead John Watson. He never questioned the light from the torch that Lestrade used to illuminate their way.

In a way Sherlock had become as immune to the detective inspector's presence as he had John's. He was simply _always_ there and the sociopath took for granted that he always would be.

A sudden rushing of water brought Sherlock's attention back to the mission at hand. His breathing started coming in short bursts as his chest tightened painfully. This was too similar to the battle inside his mind palace. The moment that John had had to make an appearance and save him from his own deteriorating psyche. That would not be happening this time.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's worried voice cut through the rushing sounds of the water.

Sherlock realized that they were standing at a fork in the tunnel. His pale eyes shifted back and forth between the two dark paths. His eyebrows cut down in denial. "This should not be here."

"What?" Mary demanded. "What do you mean, this shouldn't be here?" She was starting to lose the cool, collected persona she'd been presenting since this whole thing started.

Sherlock's voice dropped. "I mean this is not on any map." His normally calm baritone shook with frustration. "I don't know which way to go."

Lestrade exhaled as his anxiety levels rose another notch. They were so close…so close.

"Take Mary and go that way." Sherlock commanded before he reached for Mary's torch and started down the other tunnel.

"You're a mess Sherlock. What are you going to do if it's you that finds him?" The policeman bit out in anger teinged with frustration.

The tall man in the long coat stopped momentarily and turned to shoot a dangerously lethal look at the detective. "Whatever I have to. John Watson does not die _today_."

221B 221B

The sudden flare of the light that lit up his dark watery prison surprised John. He was struggling to keep his head above the rapidly rising water. The only thing that he could think of, was that whatever the outcome might be, Moran was going to make Sherlock watch. The bastard would record John's death and use it to torture the youngest Holmes. For the first time the doctor realized that he was nearly to the top of the well.

The rising water had propelled him upward and now the camera was within his reach for the first time. "You son of a bitch…" John breathed out softly as he clenched his teeth against the pain. His legs felt like lead as he started the slow task of making his way toward the camera. If this was to be his last moments on earth, he'd be damned if that psychopath was going to live-stream them.

John reached up and grabbed ahold of the conduit that the camera was attached to and pulled with all the strength he had left. His left leg was dragging him down as the pain climbed to an intolerable level. But within moments there was a flash of white sparks and the red blinking light on the camera died. _At least this way I can die in peace._

He had nothing left. There were no energy reserves for him to call upon. He had no hidden strength on which to draw, he'd used the last of it to save his friend the pain of watching him die…with that thought he stopped swimming and sank into the inky black depths of the well.

He thought he heard a muffled…"JOHN!" And then there was nothing.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're still interested in the story._

 _Massive APOLOGIES for the seriously unfair cliffhanger here…but the next chapter does have a rescue in it and a bit of twist…_


	13. Not on My Watch

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**APOLOGIES for the cliffhanger…(s)…but the next chapter has the climax…just me know what you think of the story.**

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 13**

 _Not on My Watch_

Sherlock stumbled down the final two steps and leaned against the wall, trying desperately to catch his breath. His eyes adjusted to the complete darkness ahead of him as he fumbled his way down the narrow corridor. His brow furrowed as he tried to quicken his pace, tightening his grip on the cold steel of the torch.

The familiar weight of John's pistol thumped heavily against his hip when he tripped and hit the sidewall. He felt a sharp burning sensation race along his right side as the stitches pulled apart and a warm wetness instantly soaked the incision area. Sherlock could feel the panic start to tighten in his chest. He grunted as he righted his failing transport before forcing one foot in front of the other.

The sight of a corner directly ahead made him move with a sense of purpose. Sherlock remembered seeing the turn represented on the map and below that last blind corner…was an underground water collection area. He paused for a moment and wiped at the sheen of sweat off his forehead. Letting out a silent sigh, he continued moving forward. He could hear the lapping of water and it propelled him onward like a siren's call.

His vision blurred and flashed dangerously with impending unconsciousness. Only the indomitable will he'd developed over a lifetime of stubbornness kept his heavy eyelids apart and his feet trudging slowly forward. Forcing away an involuntary shiver, he continued his halting movements through the catacombs.

The light of the torch lit up a grated circular area in the center of the small room. Sherlock's eyes unfocused as the image of clear water shifted to a crimson sea of red, a floating dock in the center and a figure lying motionless in the center. The consulting detective knew, without a doubt, that this was where he would find John Watson. Sherlock wiped the cold sweat from his brow, attempting to focus in scattered thoughts on the task at hand despite the fact that he was freezing and his attention kept wandering.

The opening in the center of the room's floor was roughly three meters across, which meant it was certainly large enough to contain a full-grown man. Sherlock's tottering steps increased slightly as he closed the distance to the edge of the grate-covered hole.

A light was emanating from deep inside the enclosure, casting an eerie glow into the chamber; suddenly it blinked out and the only light was Sherlock's hastily acquired torch.

"John?" he called softly, his voice barely audible and his heart hammering relentlessly inside his chest. The horrid silence remained his only answer.

Sherlock swallowed the rising panic as his gaze dropped over the edge just in time to see the grey-haired doctor slip beneath the glassy surface. His vision started to blur and he shifted, attempting to shake off the exhaustion that was now a constant companion. For so long he'd believe himself above the needs of his transport, ignoring them in favor new cases and games.

"JOHN!" The dreaded fear grabbed hold of his words and froze them in a timeless loop. _John. John. John._

The frantic detective grabbed uselessly the iron grate that completely covered the hole. He pulled until his own strength gave way and he fell heavily to his knees; his long fingers still wrapped around the thick rebar. "John…" he whispered desperately "…please don't".

He shook his head in an effort to clear the dangerously destructive images that were threatening to distract him before he grabbed up the torch again, shining it across the surface; it was distressingly still. His eyes studied the water with a single-minded focus, looking for any sign that John was going to resurface. Sherlock hauled his lanky frame back onto his feet, his eyes searching for something, anything that might help John.

Across from him was a latch with a brand new brass padlock on it. _Stupid…of course there's a lock._ He was disgusted with how slowly he was processing important information. His incredibly fast brain was logging every little thing, but he wasn't able to see anything until it became relevant to the situation.

Sherlock pulled John's gun from his pocket and positioned himself so that if the bullet ricochets he won't be hit…and neither would John.

One shot and an incredible amount of pain later, Sherlock had pried the grate open.

The heavy rebar had ripped open the soft flesh of his artist's hands. He could hear the frantic pounding of approaching feet; his only hope was that they belonged to Lestrade and not some henchman intent on ending the rescue mission. His lungs were burning before he even took the first breath, ignoring the pain he inhaled deeply and dove beneath the surface.

Sherlock didn't swim well, never had. However, he could paddle around if he was forced to. That had been Mycroft's idea, him learning how to "doggie-paddle". _The younger Holmes was sure there was nasty little joke in there somewhere._ His older brother had insisted that he at least learn how to tread water since he never knew where one of his "cases" might take him. At this exact moment the consulting detective was intensely grateful to his over-bearing older brother.

It was pitch black inside the water and all Sherlock could do was feel his way through the darkness, his legs and arms churning, almost violently, as he swam. His heart was hammering in his head and his chest ached in a way that Sherlock knew to be more than _'a bit not good'_. But he could not give up; not now, not when he was so close. _Find John. Find John. Find John._ The mantra repeated again and again, keeping him focused on his seemingly impossible task.

He could not lose John…not on his watch.

Just as Sherlock felt his vision starting to spiral in and his still healing lungs desperately begging for more oxygen, his fingers brushed something… _a hand_. Instinctively he grabbed a hold of the limp digits, his palm guiding downward until he could wrap his long thin fingers around the doctor's wrist; and then he hauled his precious burden up.

His hyperactive brain immediately noted that there was no pulse, which meant that he had very little time to get John back on solid ground. Sherlock ignored his own body's rejection of the extra weight and put everything he had left into propelling them both toward the distant surface.

A bouncing light told him that Lestrade and Mary had arrived, or else they were in very big trouble. His single hope was that Mycroft had managed to _compel_ the life-flight helicopters to come out despite the less than stellar weather conditions.

Sherlock ignored the aching burn stretching along his entire right side; he tuned it out as he kicked twice more and finally broke through the surface of the water, his body heaving in great gasps of air despite the pain it caused.

"Sherlock?!" Lestrade called frantically as he jumped into the water and immediately took the limp weight of the army doctor. The consulting detective started to slide back into the depths. A sudden vice-like grip on the lapel of his coat kept him from slipping back into a watery grave.

With a strength that belied her small size, Mary hauled the tall thin man toward the edge of the well and helped him scramble onto the moderately dry ground. He had barely settled his weight before she was crawling toward John's unmoving form.

Sherlock's pale gaze shifted between Lestrade and John as the detective inspector started CPR and a soul-rending fear strangled Sherlock's thought processes. Mary rushed to John's side and took over the rescue breaths as Greg performed deep rhythmic compressions.

Sherlock shifted back against the edge of the well and watched everything. His body shivered both with stress and the abating adrenaline that had provided him with the needed strength to save John. He quickly shoved a hand in front of his mouth as a coughing fit attacked his weakened lungs. It took a full minute for it to subside, and by that time, Lestrade and Mary's eyes were regarding him with building concern.

He lifted a shaking hand to appease the worry he saw there. "I'm…fine…help John." His normally deep baritone was high-pitched and breathy, but it did the trick and they returned to treating the doctor.

Sherlock's vision started to pinwheel down to a single point of light. He couldn't stop the darkness that pulled him under, his body finally ignoring the incredibly powerful mind and succumbing to the denied weakness of his transport.

Lestrade kept pace with Mary's continued rescue breaths and it only took a moment before he realized that Sherlock wasn't harassing them. He wasn't demanding that they 'do better compressions', longer, slower, more effective breaths…he wasn't even sitting near them overseeing the whole affair like some sort of _supervisor_.

Greg's brown eyes lifted and he faltered in his task when he saw that Sherlock had slumped over, his head resting limply against his chest. "Sherlock?!"

Mary's eyes shifted for a moment, her heart lurching painfully at what she was seeing, before returning to their task when John started to cough.

They carefully turned the doctor onto his side, allowing him to expel the excess water from his lungs. John's eyelids fluttered open and it only took a fraction of a second for him to recognize that he wasn't staring at an angel, but at Mary…and Greg.

His brain immediately locked onto the missing person in the room. "Where's…Sherlock?" he coughed out in wheezing gasps. His voice was hoarse and tight, but they both understood what he'd asked and why. It wouldn't have mattered what had transpired between them, neither of those two men would be able to ignore a cry for help from the other…not ever.

It was Greg that gave away the current situation. His dark eyes flickered over to where Sherlock was lying, unconscious, on the cold stone floor. Only then did the detective inspector notice the growing pool of blood beneath the younger Holmes's torso. "Shit." He ground out. The enormous coat Sherlock loved so much had hid the growing pool of bright red blood.

John was immediately trying to scramble toward his fallen friend. His shredded and broken ankle smacking limply into the unforgiving stone, he couldn't stop the cry of pain that demanded it be voiced. "Buggering hell!" he swore loudly.

Mary's green eyes shifted down, landing in his ruined ankle, she nearly sobbed when she realized the extent of the damage to his leg. The ankle was deformed, raw, and undoubtedly broken. It looked as though John had pulled it through something that had denuded the skin from around the bone. "Oh John…what did they do to you?" She breathed out softly.

It was almost as though he couldn't hear her. His eyes were laser-focused on the unconscious man with the growing red pool beneath him. "Mary, you're…a nurse." He choked out around the emotions that had bubbled up from somewhere deep inside his very soul.

It took her a moment to understand before she nodded and quickly moved to Sherlock's side. She couldn't immediately make out if he was breathing or not, the damn coat was in the way. So she laid her fingers against his carotid artery. There was a faint thump, thump, thump; but it wasn't as strong as it should be and it was racing and thready.

Mary gently rolled him so that he was lying flat on his back in order to do a more thorough check of his injuries. When she found the source of Sherlock's bleeding she wanted to weep with the irony of it. The damn sociopath had nearly killed himself, ripping his own wounds open, in his effort to get to John and haul him back into the land of the living.

"Mary?" John's broken whisper got her attention and she turned toward the man she loved with all her heart, knowing that she could not lie to him.

"He's alive." She whispered before she gently pulled the blue scarf from around Sherlock's neck, pressing it against the gaping wound in his side. "But he's lost a lot of blood. Heart rate is thready and rapid." She palpated his abdomen and then frowned. "He may have ruptured something, there's a lot of rigidity."

John wasn't prepared for her assessment and his body tensed. He started trying to pull his uncooperative body toward his friend. The pulsating discomfort now counted for nothing, not when compared to what he knew life would be if Sherlock died, while trying to save John's miserable life.

Sudden pounding steps halted his progress and John's cobalt gaze lifted to the only way in or out of the room. He wasn't sure if he was surprised or not when Mycroft and several emergency medical personnel burst into the area.

The eldest Holmes's blue eyes immediately fixated on the unmoving form of his little brother. There was an obvious internal battle before Mycroft pointed over to John.

"See to Dr. Watson first." As much as it pained him to say it, Mycroft knew that his brother would never forgive him if he didn't ensure that the doctor's health came first. But it was one of the hardest choices he had ever made. And Mycroft decided the fates of nations on a daily basis.

However given the decision between conceding to his brother's wishes or saving Sherlock's life, Mycroft found himself woefully unprepared for the unwanted emotional onslaught.

221B 221B

The trip to the hospital was agonizing for the doctor. It wasn't his ankle, although that was nearly unbearable. His head was swimming with the pain, but he would not allow it to control him. John needed answers and he wouldn't get them if he was forced to focus through a haze of pain meds.

He didn't know whether or not Sherlock was alive. He'd begged to be transported on the same helicopter, but the request had been denied due to the dangerous weather conditions. John was being transported in a separate chopper.

His teeth chattered loudly and he was freezing from the inside out. There was tightness inside his chest and he knew he'd be lucky if he didn't develop some sort of respiratory infection after nearly drowning and spending untold hours in his wet _prison_. He glanced over at the technician; she pulled another orange blanket out of a steel box. "Can you talk…to the other one?" He noted the confusion on her young face. "The helicopter?"

The girl looked over her shoulder toward the pilot then turned back to him as she shook out the long blanket. Carefully she placed it around John's shivering form. "Yes." Her gaze dropped to his immobilized leg. The white bandages were soaked through with blood causing her to frown. The doctor knew that it was bad. He'd know that when he'd done it, but there hadn't really been much of an option. The chance of infection was very high and he was sure that he'd be back to using that walking stick for a bit…which rather…sucked.

John waited for her to make the connection between why he was asking and what he needed to know. She was a bit slow, "Can you…is he…alive?" he continued in a barely audible voice.

Her eyes snapped back up, meeting his pleading gaze. John didn't know what she was seeing, but whatever it was must have convinced her to make the call. She pressed a button on the side of her headset. "Hilo one to Hilo two? What's the status of your patient?" Her eyes unfocused, in a way that communicated to John that she was listening intently to the answer from the other transport vehicle.

She looked over at John. "Copy Hilo one." She moved down toward his leg and gently pulled the covers back fully revealing the devastating injury. Her fingers gently prodded the area ensuring that there was still a pulse in the leg. "He's hanging in there."

221B 221B

The entire car ride to the hospital was achieved in silence. Lestrade didn't know what to say to Mary and he was exceedingly concerned about both his friends. Sherlock hadn't look well as they'd loaded his trauma-riddled body onto the transport. John had been slightly more responsive, but not happy about being forced to ride separate from his friend.

Mary had understood the weight restrictions due to the massive storm, but she was every bit as upset as the two men. All in all, it had been one hell of a night. Moran hadn't been taken out of the picture, so he was still a threat. But something about the whole catacombs thing seemed a bit beyond his skillset.

Greg wasn't sure who had carried out the plan, but he was sure that the plan hadn't come from James Moran. So was there someone else out there calling the shots? If so, where was that person and what did they want? It was apparent that they did not want John dead, or else they could have simply left the camera on and drowned him. So why send a text? And why send that text to Mary? What was her involvement?

So many questions and it wasn't like he could just ask Sherlock for the answers. Greg focused on the road to keep from seeing the unmoving, bleeding form of the consulting detective in his head. He was certain he would never get that out of his brain no matter how hard he tried. That image would remain burned in there right next to the one of Sherlock lying _dead_ on the street in front of Saint Barts.

The silence inside the car was palpable. The swish, swish, swish of the wipers was a loud reminder that they were shy one passenger. Greg's fingers tightened on the wheel and he pressed his lips together in frustration. Why couldn't they seem to catch a break?

A quiet buzzing broke through the silent atmosphere and Mary pulled her phone out without thinking. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the text. Greg glanced over and was taken back by the anger simmering in her green eyes.

"Mary?" he questioned quietly.

She lifted her gaze and Greg was now absolutely certain there was more to this woman than he'd previously thought. There was something feral and wild in her eyes as she held up her cell phone.

** _I'm not finished with you yet.**_

Greg blinked in confusion. "Is that meant for John or Sherlock?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

221B 221B

 _Location…unknown…_

"You sent the message?"

"I did. Think they'll figure it out?"

A shrug. "Maybe. Not if Holmes doesn't live."

A long low sigh… "Well hospitals can be tricky places. Not everyone who checks in, checks out."

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're still interested in the story._

 _More APOLOGIES for the cliffhanger…but the next chapter does have some conclusions in it, the twist is in this one, but it might not be recognizable until the next chapter, sorry about that…_


	14. Real World Conversations

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**APOLOGIES for the cliffhanger…(s)… I'll try and post again before next Saturday…just me know what you think of the story.**

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 14**

 _Real World Conversations_

 _Sherlock pulled his feet up against his chest and stared forlornly at the water surrounding his leather chair. For once he wasn't in John's rooms; he was in his mind-palace version of 221B. His arms were wrapped around his long thin legs and he was considering the damage that had now invaded every part of his mind. He was aware of the pain that permeated his thin frame, particularly along his right side, but he had elected to ignore it. The shortness of breath was more of an annoyance than anything else…at least it was here inside the relatively safe rooms of his mind-palace._

 _A sudden image of Moriarty trying to kill him had him reconsidering the safety of his own thoughts…without John; it wasn't nearly as protected as it should be._

 _He couldn't remember if he'd managed to save John from the water or not and that was the memory he was desperately trying to locate. That one single moment in time that would allow him to rest, because without it, Sherlock could not allow his mind to sink into the blissful absence of thought. And it was the one thing he craved more than drugs at the moment. It had been a very stressful return to the 'land of the living'. His death had not gone as planned and neither had his resurrection. And now?_

 _His pale eyes shifted slowly around the room, his eyebrows drawing down in consideration, the skull was sitting undisturbed on the mantle and his violin was floating near him on the glassy surface of the pool that used to be their living room. The painful image of watching John slip beneath the inky blackness was plaguing him in ways he wasn't sure how to handle. Sherlock had never been one to dwell overmuch on the past, but with John? It was different. His damn emotions were involved when it came to the doctor and Sherlock was helpless against the power of his friendship with the older man._

 _Friends had always been a bit of an enigma for Sherlock. He'd tried to understand other children, he really had, but frankly most of them were too stupid to comprehend. That had gone on for all of primary school education and continued as he'd moved forward in the learning institutions that passed as 'schools'. Once he'd reached university, there was no point in trying any longer. He was never going to be the popular boy, not that he wanted to be, so he threw himself into his studies. Emotional entanglement, whether with men or women, had been unacceptable as far as he was concerned. It derailed his acquisition of new knowledge, which was really all he cared about at that point. The energy that it took to sustain those relationships could be better spent elsewhere on more productive matters._

 _Sherlock had graduated with double graduate degrees in chemistry and forensic sciences. Even Mycroft had been impressed by his achievements. His manipulative older brother had never actually 'told' Sherlock that of course, but it had been apparent when he'd procured a Stradivarius violin and gifted it to Sherlock upon his younger brother's graduation._

 _After that they hadn't spoken nearly so often and Sherlock had found himself increasingly lost while trying to navigate the confusing world of the general population; the 'goldfish' as his brother called them, were too involved in emotional entanglements and they expected him to be as well._

 _He'd learned that the use of either Morphine or Cocaine could dampen or enhance his innate cognitive abilities and he'd used that information to his advantage. Sherlock was able to fly at dizzying heights and speeds when taking a precise 7% solution of cocaine. But when he chose morphine, he could sink into the psychedelic worlds that allowed him to float, leisurely, along as he studied the facts of certain complicated cases._

 _Either way, it was far superior to dealing with the ridiculously stupid individuals that simply didn't understand him. He tolerated the presence of some of those individuals, but for the most part he didn't need them. But, on occasion they certainly needed him, oscillating on the pavement outside his flat and trying to entice him into helping with their mundane little problems. Sherlock had never understood why people cared if their partners cheated on them. And how was that worthy of the world's only consulting detective's attention? In most cases, it wasn't. Unless a person happened to be married to a ghost, in which case Sherlock was very interested...that didn't happen nearly as often as he would like._

 _He had had a few bad cases in the beginning, ones that had led him to using more of the drugs than he'd originally intended, which was how he had first met Lestrade. Sherlock had been trying to help from outside of Scotland Yard and he'd been desperate to be let into the inner sanctum of the police department. So he'd upped his usual dose and landed himself in hospital having nearly overdosed as a result of that decision._

 _Years ago he and Mycroft had made a bargain, whatever he took; he would always make a 'list'. This list would include, without editing, everything that Sherlock had taken and the dosages, in addition to the general timeframes. It was this list that had saved his life that night…that and Lestrade._

 _The second time someone had saved his life it had been when he'd been on the brink of taking a pill that could kill him in a matter of moments. He was still fairly certain that he'd worked out which pill was which, but he'd never tested the theory. And that person had been Dr. John Watson. The war-damaged soldier had shown up at St. Barts with Mike Stamford and he'd immediately garnered more of Sherlock's attention than he deigned to give to almost anyone else he'd ever met. The only exception to this was Mycroft, but mostly because it took all of Sherlock's considerable intelligence to verbally 'spar' with his older brother._

 _Something about the way the broken man had stood in the lab, leaning heavily on a walking stick, one that he really didn't need, had intrigued Sherlock. What was more impressive was that Sherlock had never lost his interest in all things 'John'. It was like the doctor balanced him out…like an equation, and that was something that the brilliant detective could understand. He simply thought better with John around, the 'ordinary' man focused the diffused deductions, which were "Sherlock", into a blinding stream of laser-focused light._

 _He sighed as several pages of sheet music floated past his chair._

" _Well this is a mess." John's chuckle had Sherlock's gaze flashing up and instantly focusing on the man now standing in the doorway. He was dressed in his usual button down shirt and a dark colored jumper, his own eyes panning across the damage inside 221B. John was wearing some sort of cast and leaning heavily on a set of crutches. His eyes were jovial as he looked in at Sherlock._

" _You're alive." It was a stupid comment, but it was the only words the consulting detective managed to pull from his massive vocabulary as he stared at his friend._

 _Another chuckle from the doctor. "So are you." John sloshed through the water to his chair and sank down. There was a sudden shift in the smell inside the flat, it took on a more homey scent, like freshly brewed tea. The consulting detective pulled in a slow breath, ignoring the pain that lit up his side._

 _Sherlock's attention shifted to the plaster cast, that for some reason wasn't even wet, despite the fact that John had just slogged through six inches of water. His intent gaze flicked back up to John's face. "Broken?"_

" _Very broken." John's own attention shifted from Sherlock's pulled up knees, to his shaking hands, and finally up to his worried expression. "I'll heal, Sherlock."_

" _I know that." The dark-haired man allowed his grip to loosen and his legs plopped down into the water revealing a large red stain along his right side._

 _John's alarmed gasp had Sherlock leaning forward a bit so the blood wasn't as visible to the doctor. "When did that happen?" The doctor's words held an edge of accusation and his eyes flashed dangerously._

" _I should think that is quite obvious, John." Sherlock answered evenly. There was none of his usual bluster the his superior tone that was usually associated with his words. He simply answered the question the only way he knew how, which in this case was, 'honestly'. The doctor in this place was a part of him and Sherlock never forgot that fact._

" _You know I'm going to be pissed out that? The other me, the one out there…" John leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. It reminded Sherlock of the way that Mycroft would stand when he was giving Sherlock a good 'dressing down'._

" _I realize that. But it was necessary."_

 _John's head tilted to the side and he raised an eyebrow at the man seated across from him. "_

 _I cannot allow you to pay for my sins, John. I simply…cannot." Sherlock continued softly._

" _Your sins?" His grey head shook once in frustration. "Do you really believe that you deserved to die?"_

 _Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe…"_

 _The doctor's face shifted, his eyes narrowing angrily. "You are a pawn in all of this, Sherlock. Just like I am." He shifted in his chair, leaning forward to get more of Sherlock's attention. "Do you believe that I deserve to die?"_

" _No!" Sherlock's baritone echoed through the water-filled room and he furrowed his eyebrows in sincerity. He swallowed the emotions that bubbled up at John's question. "Never that." He finished more softly._

 _John sighed. "And don't you think that I feel the same way?" His face softened. "Sherlock, I owe you so much. There are so many things that I can never repay you for, but I will NOT sit back and watch you kill yourself with guilt. I will heal. You will heal. And we will catch the bastard that put me in the well."_

 _Deep down Sherlock knew the words were his own. That he was both blaming himself for John's current state and that somewhere deep down he understood it wasn't really his fault._

" _John…I…um…" he faltered when his words again abandoned him. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he'd suffered some form of Alogia due to lack of oxygen to the brain._

" _You should save whatever it is you want to say, until you can say it to the_ real _me." The lines around his deep blue eyes crinkled as he forced a smile. "I think you've quite enough conversations with the "me" in your head."_

221B 221B

John stared at the soft cast around his mangled foot. He hadn't been in any condition to perform the necessary surgical procedures when he'd arrived at hospital. Mostly due to his recently trying to drown and all. The surgeons wanted to make sure that he would not suffer from 'second drowning'. The fluid that may still be in his lungs could still be a problem. And that wasn't a chance the doctors were willing to take on the table.

So instead, they had stabilized his ankle, flushed his system with strong antibiotics and pain medication and now he simply had to wait. Mary had arrived shortly after they'd finished the initial debriding process with his ankle, that had been horrible. John had performed the procedure on soldiers, but he'd never been on the receiving end and he would pray to every God in every religion that he never was again. The pain had been nearly unbearable.

The only sustaining factor had been that they would give John information about Sherlock's condition once they'd finished the procedure. He'd argued and threatened them trying to get the information at that time, but they had been steadfast in their arrangement. John was fairly certain that either Mycroft or Lestrade had been on the other end of that dirty little deal. So he'd played the 'good little soldier' and managed his way through, waiting for it to be over, albeit not patiently.

Now he was resting, or supposed to be _resting_ in a room with an empty bed next to him and nothing on the telly to watch. He remembered Sherlock slumped over and non-responsive when the emergency personnel arrived. That actually had him catching his breath in a way that was becoming familiar where Sherlock was concerned. But he was unable to recall much of anything else once they'd been separated for transport. John had never had a brother, only Harriet and she hadn't been a very good sister.

But the doctor had learned, when he had thought Sherlock was dead, that he loved that man like a brother. And watching him die without being able to do anything had been the nearest thing to torture John had ever been through. Knowing that he had the skills to possibly save the dying detective and being unable to do so had been devastating.

John shook his head, banishing the destructive images to the same place he'd sent his more bloody memories of the war. His attention was drawn to the door as it creaked. Mary slipped through the narrow opening and smiled when she saw him awake. He managed a smile, for her sake.

"How are you feeling?" she stepped closer and cupped his chin with her hands, inspecting him.

"I'm fine." He inhaled her pleasant scent and allowed it to wash across his senses and calm his frazzled nerves. "Mary…" he didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to; Mary knew what it was that he longed to know.

"They took him into surgery. He managed to rip open the stitches from his chest tube. His lung held remarkably well considering what he put it through." She stopped speaking and allowed her fingers to gently caress his face.

John narrowed his eyes. "What aren't you telling me?" He remembered something about rigidity...it was all a little blurry though. John needed Mary to clear up the things he couldn't remember.

"He's okay, John. They ended up removing part of his liver; one of the broken ribs shifted and lacerated part of it. But, as you know, the liver can regenerate. So given time and rest, Sherlock will be okay." Mary tried to smile at him, but the alarmed expression he now wore had her leaning in and hugging him instead. "He is going to be fine, John. I would not lie to you about him." She sat back and stared knowingly into his eyes. "I wouldn't even fudge the facts."

She grabbed his overnight and laid it on the chair she was vacating. "I'm going to go home and let you get some sleep. I'm only a call away if you need anything."

 _Two hours later…_

John shifted in his sleep and the aching pain that shot up his leg brought him into full awareness. He groaned as he rolled to the side and was surprised to see Sherlock resting peacefully in the bed next to him. The consulting detective was still and breathing evenly. John had never seen his friend so quiet. Sherlock was all movement when he was conscious.

The closest he had ever got, to the state John was seeing him in now, was when he sat into his 'thinking pose' and retreated inside his mind-palace as he worked through a case. It was strange to see him lying down, his eyelashes resting softly against his cheeks, and his hands lying quietly over his abdomen. John counted the breaths as Sherlock continued to breathe softly.

John forced himself upright and moved until he could reach the chart sitting near the end of Sherlock's bed. After a brief scan of the contents, he was satisfied that his friend would, eventually, be okay. Though the recovery wouldn't be fun.

The damage to Sherlock's side was extensive, he'd pulled the stiches through the skin and the incision had ripped open. The consulting detective had received three pints of blood, with a fourth bag now hanging from his IV pole along with saline and antibiotics.

Both John and Sherlock were at increased risk of developing massive infection due to the submersion in the water. The shifting of Sherlock's broken rib had required two small stainless steel bolts to ensure that it did not move again. The doctor's were still concerned with the weakness in his right lung, but they were cautiously optimistic.

John continued to read, committing everything to memory. He was pretty sure that his own doctor's hadn't meant to leave the chart lying around.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock's weak baritone pulled John's focus and he glanced over at his friend.

Sherlock's eyes were glazed with pain…or it could be pain medication, John wasn't sure. On a good day the younger Holmes was disturbingly pale, but today he was almost pasty. He was blinking slowly, but at least Sherlock appeared to be _aware_.

"Not really. You appear to be recovering from both of your ordeals."

Sherlock's lips twitched and his grey-green eyes drifted down to the white soft cast and the elevated sling where John's leg rested. His eyebrows cut down in concern. "What happened to your leg?"

John raised his eyes to meet his friend's gaze. "I was iron-cuffed to the floor. When the water got too high, I knew I needed to give you more time. So I did what I had to."

He watched as Sherlock's face went expressionless as he realized just how close he'd come to losing John. If the doctor hadn't been resourceful, then he would have drown and Sherlock would have been attending a funeral instead of John's impending wedding.

"Sherlock…you found me. You had nothing to go on and somehow you worked out where I was. Without you, I would be dead."

"With me you might end up dead…" his words were soft and John had to strain to hear them.

The immobilized doctor wished that he could cross the chasm that seemed to be separating them. He needed Sherlock to listen to what he was about to tell him, because John wasn't sure that could ever repeat it.

"I was dead, Sherlock. Before I met you. Before you pulled me into your strangely deadly world, I was dead. The morning I met you I was making plans on how to end it all. I was done. I was done with the pain and the endless nightmares…I was just done." John's throat bobbed as emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

"John—"

He held up his hand stopping his friend from interrupting him. "No, Sherlock you need to hear this. I need you in my life. I need the cases and the danger…but most of all, I need you." He sighed softly. "You balance me."

Sherlock's eyes dropped down to the bed and his long fingers picked at the white blankets. The white bandages that had been used to cover the weeping wounds in his palms almost disappeared into the bedding. John could see that he was considering what he'd been told. Finally, his face lifted and he peered up at John from beneath the black curls resting loosely against his forehead. "What about Mary?"

John smiled. Trust Sherlock to wonder about the addition of someone new into their lives. "Mary is the love of my life, Sherlock. But that will never replace you. She can never _replace_ you." He watched as his words had the desired effect. "And I hope you were paying attention because I am never saying any of that again."

It was Sherlock's turn to smile. "That was a lot of _emotional_ context."

"Yes." John said simply.

 _Three hours later_ …

John was somewhere between asleep and awake. It was that weird world where one is aware of what's going on around them, but not able to interact with that world in a meaningful way. Something was pulling him toward awareness and wasn't entirely sure what it was.

He could just make out people talking quietly inside the room; voices that John did not recognize.

"He's just waking up now."

Sherlock's baritone rumbled quietly, but John couldn't make out the words. He could, however, hear the stressed tone. Something wrong was happening and it involved both him and Sherlock…which never seemed to work out well…for the bad guys.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're still interested in the story._

 _Okay, so I played in this chapter and it pushed the action into the next one, since I really wanted this conversation between John and Sherlock. I hope you'll forgive me and enjoy the 'bromance' in the chapter anyways… I almost didn't get the chapter up today at all due to massive power outages in my area...hazards of living in a large city I suppose._


	15. Full Circle

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**APOLOGIES for the emotional cliffhanger this week. I didn't way to leave you all hanging on until next Saturday…just let me know what you think of the story.**

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 15**

 _Full Circle_

Sherlock watched as James Moran, stood, staring down at the sleeping doctor in the bed next to his. His heart was hammering inside his chest and his lungs ached painfully as he struggled to draw continued breaths. John had only been asleep for a few hours and the consulting detective had stayed awake to keep a watchful eye on him. His own discomfort was nothing when compared to what his friend had been through.

The slight rumble of John's breathing was doing two things; it was keeping the detective aware of his status, and it was plunging the knife of guilt a little deeper with each struggling breath. He knew that the other man wouldn't hold a grudge, not now. Sherlock was certain that they'd worked past the wedge that had grown in his _absence_. Unfortunately, that didn't mean that Sherlock had been able to forgive his own arrogance and the narrow focus he hadn't been able to see past. The self-assured way he'd handled this whole thing had been a mistake; one he was all too aware of.

Self-pity wasn't really something that he did often, but it also wasn't completely lost on him. The younger Holmes curled his fingers into fists where they rested, hidden, beneath his blankets. The sickening stench of antiseptic permeated his nostrils as he breathed heavily. The strain of the last few days was starting to take a toll on his body, which certainly wasn't at its optimum, but he was doing his level best to push through the pain and the wavering vision. There was a low light filtering in from the window which informed him that it was early, very early.

His eyes darted over to where his Belstaff lay, draped over the far plastic chair in the corner. Inside those massive pockets, several feet away, was his mobile phone. It might as well have been America. It was the only way to alert anyone that something was wrong inside this room. Moran had immediately moved the nurses call button the moment he'd entered the room ensuring that it was far from Sherlock's twitching fingers.

The other man was currently balancing a knife on the tip of his pointer finger, just above John's jugular. Which meant that if Sherlock did anything that he didn't like the man would finish what had been started in the catacombs of the church.

"What do you want?" Sherlock questioned, his tone gravely and purposely even as he sought to draw the attention of this deadly man away from the blissfully unaware doctor. "I'm the one that was there when Jim Moriarty died. John had nothing to do with that."

Moran flinched at the comment and the knife slipped, he caught it before it could bury itself in the soft flesh of the doctor's neck.

For a moment Sherlock's heart lurched and the breath froze in his lungs. He knew he was playing with fire, but he desperately needed to keep this man from focusing on the task he'd come complete. A task that he'd already informed the consulting detective about the moment he'd walked into the hospital room.

He'd procured a set of scrubs and a white doctor's coat so that he wouldn't draw the attention of anyone that mattered inside the facility. The imbecilic staff would never question a man wearing the scrubs of an attending physician in an intensive care unit.

Sherlock was grateful that he and John were sharing the room. It wasn't normal to put two patients in the same room, but again Mycroft had used his seemingly endless power to alleviate some of the stress on his younger brother.

The man that his older brother had left to guard their room was likely dead. As a matter of fact there was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that the man was dead. A small smattering of blood had landed on the cuff of Moran's white dress shirt. It was fresh, and in a place consistent with blood spatter associated with a stab wound to the lower back just below the last floating rib. The wound would have a slight upward thrust and a twist, if Sherlock were correct, due to the angle at which Moran had pierced the man's kidney and then his lung. It was doubtful that the idiot even realized he'd been killed before he hit the ground and his heart stopped.

No one had tried to enter their room, which meant that Moran had placed one his own men outside, guarding the door, to keep up the appearance of Sherlock and John's safety. Not a great way for the consulting detective to discover that their tormentor had been Moran all along.

And yet… "Why would you send a message to Mary if your desired outcome was John's or my death?" Sherlock was speaking out loud and yet he knew that it was more an effort in working through his own deductions than questioning the motives of the assassin. He hadn't been lying to John when he'd told him that he thought better when he spoke out loud. The problem was, Sherlock still didn't understand Mary's involvement. He was painfully aware exactly how far he had been from solving the puzzle of John's location. Without that message, he would have been too late…and John Watson would be a treasured memory.

His heart clenched… _I was so close to being too late, even with that message._ _That is not a helpful line of thinking; focus Holmes_. He told himself sharply.

Moran laughed. It was a hollow empty sound, full of the promise of more pain and heartache. "I don't want to kill you, Mr. Holmes." The sentiment was eerily familiar to the statement of the cabbie that night in front of 221B Baker Street. "I want you to kill yourself."

Sherlock tilted his head and sneered at the man. "And why would I do that?"

Moran's gaze shifted to John. "Because I'm going to take the one thing you can't live without." He turned and stared straight at Sherlock. "Moriarty made a promise to you. He promised to burn the heart out of you." His fingers slid lovingly along the razor sharp blade. "I'm here to keep that promise."

In one blinding moment of realization Sherlock understood his mistake. He'd been operating under the assumption that Moran hadn't really wanted to kill John Watson. But he now understood, regretfully so, that someone outside of Moran had involved Mary. And not even Moran knew who that person was…there was an unknown player on their chessboard.

"You brought this on yourself, Sherlock Holmes." Moran turned fully toward John and raised the blade. The light of their small lamp glinted off the silver steel tine as the weapon started to drop.

It all happened so fast that Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what had actually occurred. He had forced his aching body up off the bed, the IV ripping out of the soft flesh on the top of his hand, and his legs wobbling dangerously as they hit to cold tiled floor. There was a loud _bang_ and suddenly Moran was falling backwards. Time seemed to stand still. He hit Sherlock square in the chest and knocked the injured man back onto the bed, nearly crushing him under the dead weight.

Sherlock's cry of pain was involuntary as the broken ribs protested the sudden impact. He landed on his back, Moran lying on top of him and then slowly sliding toward the floor. Sherlock panted as his body tried to adjust to the adrenaline dump and the shock that his injured chest had just sustained. His vision blinked dangerously at the edges and Sherlock knew that he was very close to losing consciousness.

Well, that was just unacceptable. Something unexpected had just happened and he needed to know what it was. His gaze dropped and he forced his mutinous body to obey his command to _sit up_. Sherlock's pain-glazed eyes landed on the barrel of John's browning L9 A1. It was still aimed, though not at Sherlock, but at the man that now rested in a heap on the floor of their shared room. A slowly widening pool of blood revealing his ignominious fate. There was a perfect circular hole between the man's eyes. Sherlock's attention shifted up to John.

The overnight bag was lying half-opened next to John's hip, his clothing rifled through like he'd been desperately searching for something. Obviously he had…his gun. His hands were steadier than they had any right to be. He was breathing heavily and staring wide-eyed at Sherlock.

The dark blue eyes dropped to the blood trickling down Sherlock's pale hand. His own pale gaze dropped and he realized that he'd torn the skin open when the needle had pulled free. _Funny, it doesn't even hurt_. Although to be fair, that might be because his chest was stealing that particular focus.

John swallowed and slowly lowered the gun, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. Pounding feet outside the door alerted them to the impending interruption.

The consulting detective allowed his shock to find its' way onto his face. "Good shot." He commented weakly.

There was a brief pause before a slow smile slid across the army doctor's lips. "Yes, yes must have been."

The door flew open and a panicked looking detective inspector Lestrade burst into their room. His own weapon drawn and ready as he slid to a stop; shock registering when he realized that both his friends were, indeed, still alive.

Sherlock slowly slid back into his bed, pulling the blood-spattered blankets up over his legs. He raised his eyebrow at the detective and then nodded toward the body on the floor. "I believe you're here to collect that?" He wouldn't even give this _thing_ the honor of a gender. That would humanize him and Sherlock was certain that this _thing_ was anything but human.

"You're okay." Greg's gaze flitted between the two men as he breathed heavily. "You're both okay."

"And you are repeating yourself. Have you suffered a brain injury?" Sherlock infused the comment with a slight smile. He was intensely grateful to see the policeman.

Sherlock watched as two officers and a coroner collected the body and removed it from their room.

Several hours later…

Lestrade closed the small notebook and nodded before standing up and heading toward the door. John was watching him carefully. He wasn't sure what to expect from the law officer, after all…John had just killed a man.

"I'll be in touch if I have any more questions." Lestrade answered the unasked question in John and Sherlock's faces. "I doubt you'll serve time for this, John. It was self-defense and that's how the report will be filed. He was here to finish what he started in the catacombs."

Sherlock was uncharacteristically non-hyper verbal. He simply watched the two men interact. He was well aware of his own culpability in what John had just done for him…what John had now done twice during the course of their unlikely friendship. He wasn't sure what he'd ever done to garner such loyalty and devotion from a man as honorable as John Watson, but he would spend the remainder of his time on Earth earning that loyalty.

"Well then…" Lestrade nodded once and then swept out the door along with his officers leaving the two mean alone for the first time since the shooting.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Please take a moment and let me know if you're still interested in the story._

 _Very short chapter…but I didn't want to leave you hanging until Saturday._


	16. 221B Baker Street

**Author's Note:** This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you so much for following along on Sherlock and John's journey. This was as deeply as I wanted to get into the emotional aspect of these two men. I'm not sure if they would talk about everything and John still doesn't know the specifics of what Sherlock went through. He will discover the truth though.**

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

Sorry this wasn't the Saturday post...I had work related stuff over the weekend.

 **Chapter 16**

 _221B Baker Street_

The two men stared at one another, finally one of them had to say something. Normally, this would be John, but this time the consulting detective felt that it was his place to start the conversation. After all, John had just saved his life…again.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock finally asked the doctor softly. His fingers plucked at the fresh white blanket and the muscles in his legs jumped as he shifted uncomfortably. A quick glance at his pain pump told him why, it was turned nearly all the way down.

John turned to stare over at Sherlock and finally nodded. The consulting detective raised an eyebrow. "You have just killed a man."

"He wasn't a very nice man." John responded evenly. The sentiments that had been spoken on their first case had become a very specific way to communicate.

Sherlock smiled. "No, no he wasn't." His smile slipped from his lips and he sighed when the pain lanced through his chest. He didn't miss the look of concern that immediately crossed John's face.

"Sherlock?" John frowned. "I don't think you _are_ okay."

"Is that my friend John or the doctor speaking?" His voice took on an air of innocence that was uncharacteristic of him, even he was aware of the change.

John blinked in surprise. "Both…and I'm not talking about your injuries." His gaze dropped he pulled in a deep breath.

"Any chance we can table this discussion until we're back at Baker Street?" The thin man's eyes were pleading as he stared at the doctor. Sherlock wasn't sure that he was ready to talk about everything yet. He _wanted_ to tell John about literally everything he'd seen in the time they were apart, but not yet.

A painful realization occurred to Sherlock as he stared at John. The doctor no longer resided at 221B. He had moved out; moved on. And while the consulting detective had been so sure of their relationship before he'd returned…now he wasn't so sure what would happen once they left the hospital.

He watched several emotions flit across John's face before he nodded slowly. "Fine. But we are discussing this."

Further conversation was cut short when Mary, Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper rushed through the door of their shared room. Sherlock watched the reunion between his best friend and the woman he'd chosen to bring into their world. He didn't fully understand why he had trusted her so quickly. Something about her was certainly off, but her devotion to John was second only to Sherlock's and for that he was willing to give her a chance.

Mrs. Hudson fussed over them both. It was both irritating and not wholly unexpected. Sherlock had come to know the older woman quite well and he knew that she would _mother_ them both into wellness.

 _Three days later…221B Baker St._

Sherlock shuffled to his leather chair, a cup of tea teetering loosely in his shaking hands. He wasn't moving with much efficiency today and he hated it. The flat felt empty without John's presence and he was all too aware of the silence. It was an unusual feeling, this loneliness that seemed to permeate the entire flat. He sighed and slowly sank down into his beloved chair.

His gaze landed on the empty seat across from him and he sighed before taking a sip of the tea. Sherlock made a face and set the cup down. It wasn't as good as what John made…it wasn't even as good as Mrs. Hudsons. He hadn't realized that she came and made him tea in the mornings. Unfortunately for him, this morning she was in Suffolk with an ailing friend. Which meant that Sherlock was more alone inside the Baker Street flat than he normal.

"You seem…better." Mycroft's voice cut across the flat and Sherlock pressed his lips together with suppressed emotion.

"I'm alive. No thanks to the imbecile you posted outside my room."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and settled into John's empty chair. He did not miss the shortened breath from his younger brother. "Well, Moran did have him pay for that with his life. I think that is enough. Don't you?"

Sherlock reached for the tepid cup of tea and then grimaced at the taste. He saw the concern that his brother generally tried to hide plain on his face as he took in Sherlock's physical state. The way he was hunched over, what was obviously, a cold cup of weak tea. His eyes were clear, though glazed in pain as he sat quietly.

"Where is Dr. Watson? I assumed he would be here."

If the air inside the flat could have dropped several degrees, it would have. The look that Sherlock sent Mycroft was cold and void of the emotions that had been there moments before. "He has a life outside of 221B."

Mycroft interlaced his fingers as he assessed his younger brother's defense of the absent doctor. "And this life no longer includes you?"

"That is not what I said." This time Sherlock's baritone had dropped and he let his gaze slide toward the fire burning to his right. He did not want to have this conversation with Mycroft. He and John were fine.

"Did you think that meant I wouldn't be here for you anymore?" John's words pulled Sherlock's face up. John was leaning heavily on a set of crutches, a bag slung over his shoulder and a smile on his face. His knowing gaze flicked between the two Holmes brothers as he tried to determine what he'd just walked in on. On a good day these two men were difficult for him to read…and this did not appear to be a good day.

"John…What are you doing here?" Sherlock's voice was calm and even, but his eyes were searching for something specific. He leaned to the side and his ribs protested an a wash of pain. He bit back the groan that begged to be voiced.

John limped into the room, his eyes switching to where Mycroft still sat in his chair. It only took one look from his younger brother for Mycroft to haul himself and allow the injured doctor to lower himself gingerly into the fabric-covered seat.

Sherlock watched quietly as John settled his bag and the crutches next to him and then sat back, folding his arms. His pale gaze jumped to his brother and then the door. Mycroft got the hint and blew out a slow irritated breath before making his way to the stairs. "I'll check on you tomorrow." He said, almost as an afterthought as he made his way from the room.

Before Sherlock could answer, John responded. "We'll be fine, Mycroft. I'll keep an eye on him."

There was a brief pause of the footsteps on the stairs and then they continued until the front door opened and closed softly.

"Well, you look terrible." John said as his attention shifted to the younger Holmes brother. On the table next to Sherlock was the prescription medication the doctors had given him for the pain. The seal had yet to be broken. Which meant that the consulting detective had to be in a lot of pain. The sheen of sweat on his forehead was a good indicator of that.

Sherlock shifted again, his arm wrapping protectively around his side as he did. The blue dressing gown slid down his shoulder and the ratty t-shirt that he preferred offered little protection from the cold evening. The rain pounded against the window as the wind drove it in unnatural directions. The chill from the outside made the flat colder than normal. John was wearing his favorite grey jumper and he looked relatively warm, which made Sherlock wonder if he was the only one that was freezing.

John's eyes flicked over to the half-full cup of tea. "You made tea."

"I can make tea, John." Sherlock responded dryly.

"Really?" he laughed. "I've never seen you make tea. Not once in the entire time I've known you."

Sherlock grimaced. "Just because I happen to like yours better, does not mean I cannot do it." He slowly forced his aching body up and stood to move closer to the fire. "Why aren't you at home with Mary?"

John shrugged. "We felt that I would recover better here. It's closer to the surgery—"

"And you can keep an eye on me." It wasn't a question; it was almost more of an accusation.

"It's not about that, Sherlock." John heaved a sigh and leaned forward. The cast on his foot drew the consulting detective's eye down and he furrowed his brow before a muscle jumped in his cheek and he looked away. "And it's not about _that_ either."

"Then what is it about?" he demanded. A wave of nausea twisted his stomach as he waited for John's answer.

John shook his head and leaned back in the chair. "You. This is about you…and me."

Now Sherlock was completely confused. "About…what?"

"Sherlock, it's been a long two years and we have a lot to talk about." John watched as his words dumbfounded his friend. The pale thin man swallowed thickly and then moved toward the tea on the side table.

"Tea?"

John huffed and then nodded. "Tea would be lovely." He leaned over and grabbed his crutches before he levered himself up and followed Sherlock into the Kitchen.

The Bunsen burner sat unlit on the table and the beakers were clean of any experiments. The kitchen was actually somewhat clean; a state that John had rarely seen it in. Sherlock moved slowly between the cupboard and the stove as he pulled the tea and another clean cup. John measured the tea as the detective put on a pot to boil.

Sherlock clamped his eyes shut as shooting pain lit up his side in a very tangible reminder of their ordeal. He leaned against the counter and bit back the reaction. His knuckles were white against the blue-green of the kitchen.

John didn't say anything as he took in the expression on his friends face. Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as the injured doctor hobbled back into the living room. _Great, this isn't going at all how I want._ Not that he'd had a plan. He hadn't expected to see John that night and now nothing was going, as it should. Sherlock took a deep breath and then pushed away from the support of the cabinets. A moment later John shuffled back into the kitchen and set something down in front of Sherlock.

It was the bottle of pain medication. Sherlock's surprised eyes shot up and connected not with the doctor-version of John, but with his friend. "Please take something for the pain."

"It's morphine." He said quickly. It was almost defensive. John's head tilted the side and his expression softened. "It dulls my mind and I need to be sharp." Sherlock continued.

"Why? You're here in Baker Street. You can let your guard down for a few moments, Sherlock." He blew out a frustrated breath.

The younger man shook his head and pulled out a chair. He lowered himself slowly onto the hard rough wood of the kitchen stool. "No. I can't. Every time I think I've got this figure out…" He sighed. "There's someone else out there." He finally revealed. Sherlock's shoulders were slumped and he could feel his body shaking with both the pain and the effort of simply sitting upright in the hard chair.

John's face shifted and then he pulled the boiling kettle off the stove and proceeded to add the tea to allow it to steep while they continued this conversation. "Was it someone trying to get to you through me? Someone outside of Moran?" he turned back toward the detective and then limped to the empty chair on the other side of the table.

"I don't know." Sherlock answered simply. He considered what he did know, which wasn't much, and then shook his head before letting it drop into his hands as he ruffled his curly locks in agitated frustration. "I don't like _not knowing_."

"Can we leave it for another day?"

Sherlock's head shot up and he stared wide-eyed at his friend. _Leave it?_ Was John losing his mind? This person had known what was going on with John and Sherlock and they had chosen to intervene at the last moment. And what about Mary? What was her involvement in this whole debacle? "You could have died." He said instead.

John nodded and rolled his shoulder gingerly. "Oh, I know that." His wise blue eyes shifted to pin Sherlock with intensity. "We both nearly did die."

They both descended into silence for a few moments before John slowly stood and grabbed the tea from the stovetop. He set a cup in fresh cup front of the detective and then settled into the chair again. "Sherlock?"

The multi-hued gaze lifted to meet his. The emotions that were boiling beneath the surface were vast and endless. Sherlock couldn't hold that attention for long and slowly lowered his attention to the cup of tea in front of him. He had wanted to have this conversation with John for so long and now that it was here, he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. There were so many things that his friend deserved to hear, but Sherlock was not good with people…he never had been.

John must have recognized the hesitation; because he didn't say anything he simply sat there and drank tea.

Finally, Sherlock found his words. "I'm sorry." It wasn't much, but they were some of the most honest words he'd ever said to his friend.

"For what?"

It was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "For what? For nearly getting you killed. For faking my death and…hurting you…for so many things." He sighed and let his eyes drop away from the intense gaze of the doctor. He could see John assessing him in a way that tore away at his defenses. It wasn't that the man could see through Sherlock's lies and half-truths, but he had a way of making the consulting detective aware of these things.

"Sherlock…" While John wanted to hear these things, he could see it was tearing at the younger man.

"You died, John. You were dead and it was my fault." His body shook with the effort this conversation was demanding from him. It was the first time that Sherlock understood what he'd done to his friend. He'd been aware of John's reaction to his _death_ on the pavement. At the time he had been so focused on the upcoming adventure of tracking down Moriarty's network that he hadn't been focused on what his plan would do to the people in his life. Sherlock had never expected to be anyone's best friend.

John pulled in a long slow breath and swallowed the thick lump of emotion building in his chest. "But I didn't die. You saved me."

Sherlock smiled slightly at that. His deep baritone rumbled as he found the words he wanted to say. "We saved each other."

The doctor smiled at that and nodded. "Yes. That's true isn't it?" He raised his eyebrows as Sherlock picked up the two pain pills sitting on the corner of the table. He watched as the detective swallowed the pills and then sat back.

John's gaze shifted down Sherlock's thin frame and he frowned again. "Are we going to talk about it?" he asked softly.

"I thought we were _talking about it_." He looked genuinely confused as he missed the intention behind John's question.

The doctor rolled his eyes. "No, about the last two years. Are we going to talk about it?" He inhaled deeply. "I saw your chart at hospital, Sherlock. I might not be as observant as your brother, but I can read a medical chart."

Sherlock turned away from the knowing gaze of the doctor. He was under no illusions about John's ability as a medical man. He had more skill in that area than most doctors. He considered his friend's request, but a part of him was not ready to delve back into those memories. Not yet…he still hadn't analyzed how much pain it would cause once he allowed them to the surface. He needed to know that before he could have a conversation about it with John. He considered the best way to sidestep John's request and quickly decides that was best to be honest. "I can't. Not yet."

John's head tilted to the side. Sherlock could see him trying to determine whether or not to push the issue. He could only hope that John's own history would allow the military man to give him the time he needed to work through the messy memories a bit on his own. "But you're saying you will? At some point you'll tell me about it?"

The dark-haired detective finally nodded, agreeing to the doctor's request. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before, "How long are you staying?" Sherlock wasn't sure that he wanted t know the answer to that question, but true to his nature, he couldn't _not_ know.

"I don't know. For a while." The truth of his words were written opening on his kind face.

The detective furrowed his brow, "What about Mary?" Sherlock still wanted to look into the past of the woman that John seemed to have chosen as a partner. After the last two years, he couldn't just allow someone into John's life that may not be all that they appear to be. And there was no question that there was more to Mary than even John knew.

John shrugged. "She agrees with me on this."

Sherlock's eyebrows cut together in confusion. "Really?"

"Really." He answered quickly. "I've missed being here." John smiled a bit at something he did not say aloud. Sherlock's assessing gaze never left his expressive face as he considered what he wanted to say to his friend. "We don't know who sent that message, Sherlock. And that worries me. So I want to be around when you figure that out. We're better as a team…we always were."

The last statement landed heavily on Sherlock. John was right. He thought better with the doctor around, he was _better_ with John around. And judging by how little he knew about the unknown player on their field, he knew that he needed to be clear and focused as he moved through this new game of wits. He finally nodded and then slowly levered himself out of the chair and made his way back to the living room.

John followed and everything in 221B finally slid back into the normality that Sherlock had craved since his return to London. The grey-haired doctor settled into his own chair, the crutches lying next to him on the floor and a fresh cup of tea in his hands.

Sherlock couldn't help the feeling of warmth that spread through him at the sight. "Hungry?"

John smiled easily. "Starving."

221B 221B

The darkened room was full of the ominous nature of the two minds sitting at the center table.

"So, what do you think?"

"About his skills? They're good. I'm curious how he'll cope once he knows the truth."

"As am I. When do we start?"

A quick breath and then, "Give them some time. Let them heal a bit first. After all, the next game won't be so easy."

 **The End…Sherlock and John will return.**

 **Author's Note** : _Thank you for sticking with me through this first Sherlock story. I am working on a new one, as evidenced by the ending on this one. Let me know if you're interested in John and Sherlock's next adventure._


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